The Brotherhood
by Emmy the Writer
Summary: -"Once you join, you'll never leave." The Defias Brotherhood don't like it when you break their rules, which is just what Conyeri DeHayersae did. She's been used and abused, trapped in a downwards spiral of lies, murder and inherited evil. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Can I post a quick disclaimer? This story contains violence, implied rape, some Sapphic (over)tones, incredibly inaccurate references to Warcraft history and the revelation of a truly (lol) horrific secret about Edwin VanCleef.

-

The Brotherhood

Chapter I

The muted slap of boots on wood was a noise that would follow Conyeri through the rest of her life, and possibly beyond. She had been pretending to sleep, listening to her parents' light conversation through the thin and creaky wooden floor of her room, which was directly above the fireplace. They were talking about goretusk liver pie, she remembered. How that nice woman a couple of farms over had come around the day before and showed her mother how to make the dish. It was a beautifully simple and comfortable natter that became, as the evening wore on, a thrumming lullaby of her father's baritone, mumbling on as the base line and the interjection of the higher-pitched melody that she doubtlessly knew was her mother's.

In fireside stories, there is a great deal of drama attached to most of the happenings. This was nothing like that. Conyeri felt it acutely, about a minute before her parents. It was a niggling, uneasy realization that things were slightly amiss. Occasionally there would be a slight noise, like the scuffle of a boot in the loose Westfall soil, or the rasp of a heavy breath. Conyeri's stomach flipped around as she tried to gain comfort in snuggling underneath the warm linen of the bed covers, but to no avail. A sudden languorous breeze tickled the back of her neck and the curtains of her previously closed window fluttered. She almost forgot to breath as the presence behind her moved closer, believing she was asleep. The air in the room was suddenly disturbed, and as she focused on it, she could almost visualize the hand signals. She did not know the code, but the jerky and fumbling movements made it clear that the presence was not experienced. They stopped their communication and padded from the room with a foul noise, that of the unsheathing of a blade.

As soon as they entered the hallway they abandoned their stealth. There were four of them, led by a woman, all in dark leather armour and carrying an array of weapons that glinted maliciously in the dying light of the fire from downstairs. Conyeri, however young people perceived her as, knew these people. She could sense their cruel smiles from underneath their blood-red bandanas.

The leader gave the order and they ran down the stairs, weapons brandished. Thump, slap, thump, their boots impacted the wood. Her father started to shout, but he was cut off and gurgled the rest of his warning. Taken unawares, her mother said nothing. Conyeri jumped out of bed and crossed lightly to the balcony heart filled with terror. This could not be happening to her. Not to them, the normal farming family who had no debts to pay, no skeletons in their cupboards and no cobwebs worthy of dusting. She was sixteen years old; she should be hopelessly in love like Maybell Maclure and her Tommy Joe. She should be having fun in her last days of childhood. Not this.

"Aren't you a pretty little one," a sultry female voice purred into Conyeri's ear. She stiffened at the firm grip from behind and the gloved hand cupped over her mouth. "You shouldn't be up so late. I'll tell mommy,"

Conyeri inwardly cursed herself. The woman hadn't ever left the balcony. She had just sat back against the wooden paneling and slipped into stealth. She had known from the beginning that the child wasn't asleep. Triumphant cries from downstairs interrupted her mental breakdown of the situation, but the woman did not loosen her grip in the slightest. Conyeri was beginning to have trouble breathing. The looters began scraping around, opening cupboards and draws, taking everything that was transportable. Her mother's jewelry box was hotly contested, but in the end a tall, scarred looter with the biggest sword won it.

In a single, fluid motion, the newly orphaned Conyeri found herself facing the woman. If she had not just broken into her house, ordered her parents to be killed and had her men loot everything, Conyeri would have thought her outstandingly beautiful. Her long golden hair spilled over her leather-clad shoulders, contrasting its darkness. Her face was milky-white, and though mostly concealed by the red bandana she wore over her nose and mouth, exceptionally smooth. Conyeri, however, found her imperfection- the seething hatred and bloodlust that radiated from her green eyes.

"What to do with you, mm?" she puzzled, giving the poor girl her most predatory grin. "These nasty men have done away with your lovely parents and everything that isn't bolted down in your house." Her smile faltered. "I've never had to decide what to do with a child before."

One of the men shouted from downstairs. "We got it all, Ma'am!"

"Very good. You go back to base- I've got some clearing up to do."

A different man, with a deeper voice, called out in question- "the kid?"

"No, I spilt something on their nice wooden floor and I'm going to mop it up," she retorted, face contorting. The men grumbled and left, Conyeri's entire life with them. "Sometimes I think they're just not worth the effort," she sighed, releasing her iron grip. "Where were we?"

She didn't expect an answer, evidently, but her eyes were goading Conyeri to give one. She opened her mouth to speak, but her sweaty hand slipped on the banister and she fell to the floor with a painful thump.

The woman snorted. "Not the stealthiest of escape attempts. You'd better not move so quickly again, or I'll lose the few inhibitions I still have,"

Conyeri nearly said something about her current level of inhibition but bit her tongue. The cause of this was the sudden realization that the woman had not only a very pointy-looking sword strapped to her hip but a powerful magical aura. She frowned at Conyeri's sudden epiphany. "Cat got your tongue?" she slid her sword from its sheath and brought it up to rest on Conyeri's lips, breaking the skin and causing a small trickle of blood to roll down her chin. "I think I'd prefer if I had it." She pried the defenseless girl's mouth open easily and rested the flat of the blade on the top of her tongue. "I enjoy killing, but not children. Especially ones that might grow up to be so pretty," she almost purred again. "But I don't want to let you go."

Conyeri didn't much like the sound of that. She wanted her parents, her friends from the other farms.

"Don't look at me that way. To be honest, it's my choice, and if I don't do it, my boys will. They have no qualms with doing that kind of thing." The woman gave her a once over. Her nightdress was getting a bit short and tattered in some places and it was cold tonight. Her eyebrows rose jeeringly as she continued her visual exploration.

Conyeri instinctively wrapped her arms around her chest and shied away. She was no stranger to attention like this since she had begun to grow up- usually from men, but not that it mattered- but she was in a dangerous enough situation now without unwillingly putting perverse thoughts into the woman's head.

"How old are you, Conyeri DeHayersae?" the way she spoke Conyeri's name made shivers crawl up her spine. The fact that the woman even knew her name was sinister enough; let alone the tone of voice. "Eighteen? Nineteen?"

The blade slid from her mouth so that she could answer. "S-sixteen…" she mumbled, pulling herself up, clinging to the banister so tightly now that she couldn't feel her fingers.

Conyeri couldn't physically see the woman's mouth, but her eyes showed her grin just as keenly. "You haven't trained in a class yet, have you? Or were mummy and daddy never even going to let you? Marry you off to some bumpkin lad with more acne than brains so you could toss out thousands of spratlings- that was the general idea, I assume."

A well of hate surfaced within Conyeri like hot vomit and boiled over at the mention of her parents. She wanted to defend them, to show this woman that they were good people. Her left fist connected squarely with what had at first appeared to be a stomach, but was replaced by the wooden paneling of the wall. Splinters broke off and dug deep into Conyeri's hand and she gasped in pain.

"That was ill-considered," the woman remarked. "I could heal those if you want," her hand began to glow greenish, but quickly went a sickly purple, corresponding to the feral flash of the woman's eyes. Conyeri felt the splinters bore further into her hand and she fell to the ground, hand outstretched and shaking violently. "Say thank you,"

Conyeri screamed as the splinters began to heat up and screw their way down to her bones. "That wasn't a very good thank you. Try again."

Through the pain, Conyeri's pride shone like a sacred candle. She was most definitely not going to place herself in the gratitude of this monster of a woman. A shadow fell over her and she looked up into hungry green eyes. "I was actually planning to let you go, you know. And you turn out to be a stubborn little shit." She sighed and kicked Conyeri's injured hand, causing a piercing cry that burned her throat, but she didn't even ask for reprieve.

The woman crushed her hand this time, beneath her heavy boot. Conyeri gritted her teeth and growled, pulling it out from underneath. The woman raised her eyebrows.

"Oooh," she said, looking down at the helpless girl. "I think I like you."

-

The smell of mould, sweat and magic hung thicker than elekk hide in the air when Conyeri woke up. Everything hurt more that she had ever considered possible. The time when she had accidentally shoved a pitchfork through her foot was like a prick in the finger in comparison. There was no comfy feather bed underneath her or fresh linen keeping her warm. She was laid out on a wrecked table, her naked body covered in a material similar to the rough weave that her father had used for sacks of oats. Her left hand was heavy bandaged and she couldn't even think about moving it without ricocheting pains making her whole arm spasm.

The real horror set in when she cast her exploration to her right side. There was a small dressing tied over her right hand. It was throbbing slightly.

"Good mornin', sunshine," a gruff dwarven voice made Conyeri jump, which she immediately regretted. "Miss Du'Paige will be thrilled yeh've woken up so soon."

The sound of that name made Conyeri's already upset stomach lurch. She leaned over the side of the table and threw up what little she had managed to keep down the night before. The Dwarf chuckled and cracked his knuckles. "Trus' me, kiddie, yeh're a lucky one. I'd give me two front teeth fer a go at Marisa Du'Paige- and so would the vast majority of me buddies."

Conyeri threw up again as a slew of fragmented recollections hit her like the Deeprun Tram, each more frenzied than the next.

She was pinned under Marisa's body, struggling to get free, anticipating another brutal beating. Hot breath in her ear.

"_Just because I wouldn't kill you- that doesn't mean you're off the hook,"_

She was weakened, fastened by her bad hand to the post of her bed, eyes wide with primal fear. Sparkling eyes surveying her naked body.

"_You remind me of myself," _the woman said, fumbling with the strap on her belt. _"Young, weak, inexperienced. Pure. It's maddening, Cony."_

"_Don't call me that!" _The air was kneed from Conyeri's stomach.

"_I can call you whatever I want, __**Cony**__."_

She was at the edge of consciousness. She was beyond her physical limit, twice. She had endured several more brutal beatings. She just wanted to pass out, but suddenly her limbs were filled with revitalizing magic that brought her back. A tear carved a salty path down her cheek, stopping where her thick brown hair was plastered to her sweaty face.

"_Stop… top…stop…please…" _Her pride had long been shattered into a million fragments and scattered into the wind. _"P… please…"_

"Don' ye go throwin' up all over the place, girlie," the Dwarf took her by the back of the neck. "It's already in enough of a state as it is, aye?"

She shook off his grip and steadied herself before lowering her body down from the table, careful to avoid the pool of vomit. Her legs shook, but held, if not painfully.

"Where is this?" It came out as less than a whisper. Her throat ached for all the screaming. "Who are you?"

The dwarf tipped an imaginary hat at her. "Dashel Stonefist, at yer… well, not exactly service, eh? More like… yer…" she scratched his bald head. "whatever. Most call me Dash, though the Boss prefers Fist. It does have a more aggressive feelin' to it, dunnit? I can't disclose the location, 'cause yeh're bein' moved ta'night anyways,"

He hopped off the chair and moved over to the pack that rested against the grotty wall. "It's steamed goretusk liver or wolfmeat, I'm afraid. If yeh're one of these vegertarist types, yeh're screwed." The very sight of the meats nearly made Conyeri throw up again.

"No." She took his chair. And ran her the fingers of her semi-good hand through her hair. The dressing caught and the moment she was dreading came. She undid the crude knot and peeled the cotton off, revealing her worst nightmare.

It was just less than the diameter of the back of her hand and perfectly circular. The cog tattoo stood out a thick back against her light skin.

"Yer jus' the same as me now, girlie. Same as all of us. I think t'wd'have been nicer for Miss Du'Paige ta just get rid of ye, but I ain't callin' any shots, I guess."

The cog of the Rebel Stonemasons. Mark of the Defias. "Let me go,"

Dash snorted into his goretusk. "T'wouldn't be a great idea, lass, considerin' that there's about 'alf of the Defias in Elwyn outside, all of 'em green with jealousy at ye. An' Miss Du'Paige will be on 'er way as we speak."

Conyeri slumped back into the chair, suddenly so tired. Everything had happened so quickly, so ferociously, that she hadn't stopped for a breath. She felt so detached from it, like she was watching the whole thing happen from the corner of the room, or standing on a sandy shore, but the waves wouldn't lap over her feet, however far she went in. Her life had been eviscerated, pillaged and twisted beyond recognition. And now the Monster had done this to her- assured her that she could never walk free again in Azeroth. Her innocence had been snatched from her in the worst way possible, leaving her catatonic with confusion. She was not confused about what had happened, of course, because that was fairly obvious. If she had been younger, maybe that would be the case, but she couldn't wrap her mind around the Monster's motives and split decisions. One moment, she had been brutally beating and desecrating her, the afterwards she'd cradle Conyeri in her arms and whisper soothing spells in her ear.

"_Don't cry, don't cry,_

_Little one, rest and lye,_

_To sleep, to sleep,_

_Little one, grow strong and reap,_

_Sing peace, sing love,_

_Sing heaven above,_

_Sing, my little one,_

_Sing for me."_

Conyeri began to cry. Not great weeping sobs, but a slow meandering of tears that scorched her rosy cheeks. Her mother had sung that to her when she was younger: it was an old rhyme that ran in the DeHayersae family. Conyeri couldn't sing well, but she'd sing along anyway, for the twinkling smile her mother would offer her when they finished. She was alone, even if she did not quite accept it- she was alone. Alone. Alone, she reminded herself again. It hurt, but not as much as her body. She wondered if that was all she appeared to be to the Monster, a weak physical presence to be dominated.

"Lass, yeh'd be wise to stop thinkin'. I dunno the details of all o' what's happen'd, an' I'm probly not one ye want te get advice from, but it'll make thins worse."

Conyeri looked at him. He was old, with a long graying beard braided on two sides, and his eyes were hard and beady. He was dressed simply, faded yellow breeches, black boots with big metal buckles that were rusting and a plain overshirt. She wondered who he was, and why he was like that. She noted the cog tattoo on his hand. Why had he joined the Defias? Had he been forced, like Conyeri, or did he have his own reasons? He seemed of decent temperament, wise to the way of the world perhaps a little too much. Did he have a wife? Children? Grandchildren that depended on him and this was his only source of income? Did he commit some heinous act and get exiled?

Boots crunched outside the door and Conyeri nearly threw up again. The bolt slid open and the Monster stepped inside, looking a little haggard.

"My apologies for the delay- I was only informed at the last minute that you weren't in Stormwind any more, Dashel."

"S'no trouble at all, Miss Du'Paige. The lass woke up a couple o' minutes ago." Dash replied, enacting what Conyeri guessed was their form of salute. He took the hand with the cog tattoo on and created a fist with it, and pressed it, palm inwards, to his opposite shoulder. Marisa did likewise, but with apathy.

"You can go stretch your legs now. You will be adequately rewarded for your service." She motioned for him to leave and she shot a lingering glance at Conyeri that was filled with something she didn't expect- possibly a little pity mixed with concern. The door swung shut and the Monster bolted it. They were alone again. "Hello again, Cony. You're no end of trouble, you know," she pulled off her bracers and unclipped her belt. "Mind undoing this for me?" she motioned to where her bandana was tied behind her head. Conyeri had learned that disagreeing with Marisa Du'Paige was not, in any circumstances, the smart thing to do. She deftly undid the firm knot and the red cloth fell off Marisa's face. Conyeri held it on one of her hands, fascinated at the incredible texture. It was light and soft, breathable and yet she felt magic swirling around it, clinging to the threads.

"It's netherweave," the Monster said, noting Conyeri's amazement. "Not cheap, but the best material we've found so far- not that many Defias get to wear one of these."

She slid the cloth from Conyeri's grip. "Don't look like that. I'm in a good mood now- I've just attacked two supply caravans headed to Sentinel Hill. Filled with weapons and armour, plus cloth and trade supplies. Means that ten more homeless people will have beds to sleep in tonight."

Conyeri frowned. "What would they have to do to earn those beds?"

The Monster chuckled. "Not that much. A bit of dirty work- some small-time stealing from people who have enough to spare."

"What about me?" Conyeri shifted the focus, having abandoned her plan to try being cautious and letting it crop up in natural conversation- not that any conversation she'd had with the Monster had been anything near natural so far.

The Monster sighed. "Yes. You. Seemed fine at the time, but now I regret it- you know the feeling?" Conyeri nodded. A few freshly baked cherry pies came to mind, followed by the sickliest evening of her life. "Well, since I don't expect you to be well-versed in what goes on behind the red bandana, so to speak, you can take stay seated and I'll explain."

She crossed over to the table next to Conyeri, who instinctively recoiled. "Don't be like that. I'm not in that kind of mood now- I drank my fill of lust with slaughtering some rich merchants. You're safe for the time being, Cony."

Conyeri growled. "Don't call me Cony."

"I can think of several other things I'd like to call you, but most of the will make your skin crawl, Cony. Anyway, before you interrupted, I was explaining my plight. The Defias Brotherhood works of a policy of self-initiation- anyone with a cog tattoo and a piece of red cloth can be considered a Defias. But word usually reaches our ears of their activities after a while, and we send someone to scope them out. If they're good material, we train them. If not… they don't last long. Bad publicity, see."

She hopped up onto the table and looked at Conyeri. "Last night, I got a bit ahead of myself. You were pretty, vulnerable and insanely talented. Your parents were never planning to let you train- I know, since they were talking about it a few nights before when we went to scope out your place- and you had so much to offer. You had excellent senses- you knew that my men were coming several minutes before. You of course didn't know that I had been in the room for about an hour already, but I can't blame you there- I'm no rogue, but my stealth is enhanced greatly by magic. You struck out even when you were cornered, and you had such a fighting spirit. You were everything I'd look for in a potential recruit."

"I'd never voluntarily join you," Conyeri interjected, glaring at her. The Monster laughed straight at her, giving Conyeri a look that seemed to say that she knew more about her than she did herself.

"Your father did." Conyeri was silenced. "Harrigan DeHayersae, skilled architect. He was five or six years older than me when the nobles betrayed us- older than Edwin. He was a role model to him, someone who fought strongly for his beliefs and stormed straight up to the that blackhearted wench Terenas and demanded payment for his fellows and the backbreaking work they'd done to make his city great. He had a young wife, a woman of outstanding beauty- so Edwin tells me. The king took her and offered your father a deal- he could stay in the city if he persuaded the stonemasons not to launch full-scale attack on the city. The sap that he was, he spoke with Edwin and encouraged him to keep his actions against the kingdom small-scale, at first- he couldn't really do much with the number of people he had rallied under him anyway. Edwin agreed and set out to for the Defias brotherhood, with Harrigan acting as an inside agent- his wife didn't know of his continuing support for the Defias. This continued for many years, until that woman had to get pregnant- with guess who?"

Conyeri's voice caught in her throat. "Me, but do you expect me to believe-"

"Look it up. Stormwind city files, hard printed evidence. You'll see the deal that the King gave him. And if you absolutely insist, I can show you his letters to Edwin, in his own hand. Will you let me finish?"

Conyeri nodded dumbly.

"Harrigan severed his ties to the Defias and moved out of Stormwind. He traveled to Westfall with his wife, thinking to start a new life in which his child could grow up properly. He bought a derelict farmhouse and some land, and there you have it, story of your life." She finished, sighing.

"So what? He changed. He became good. That's all that matters."

"Tsk, tsk. I went a bit off-topic. You don't appreciate the dilemma I'm in. because I gave you that tattoo, you'll never be able to do anything else. But you don't want to be a Defias. So what's an orphaned, classless pretty young thing like you to do?"

"I could run off to Kalimdor."

"On what boat? What crew would take someone marked as an aggressor to society? And besides, you really think there aren't Defias on Kalimdor? We're just more low-key there, but a lot of big stuff goes on. I recall being told that our scapegoat Hendel had been dispatched of, as was the plan. Smite was one of scores or Tauren that rallied to our cause after being exiled from their villages. We're bigger than you think, Cony."

"So what do I do now?" She asked, almost trembling. She hated this all, every contradicting fact and vicious truth, every one of the Monster's soft smiles and rambling monologues. The way she said _Edwin_, like he was a man worthy of affection. How she was so loose with herself, how Conyeri was being forced to choose between her life and her personal beliefs. She rephrased her question. "How long do I have to decide?"

"Rather generously, in my opinion, until tomorrow morning. It's about midday now, so I'd use the time wisely." She then grinned. " I can think of a wise use of your time, if you're stuck, though."

Conyeri pushed herself back in the chair. "No thanks. Can Dash come back in? I want to talk to him." Marisa's eyebrows rose, but she unlatched the door and stepped outside. Dash entered and looked at her quizzically. "Privately," Conyeri explained, noticing her captor about to re-bolt the door.

"I'd say you weren't in the right position to make demands," she replied dryly, narrowing her eyes. Nevertheless, she picked up her bandana from the table and tied it in one swift motion. She slipped her bracers on and gave Conyeri a dangerous look before grabbing her belt and fastening her sword on and striding out the door. Once it had closed, the bolt fizzled with arcane magic and shut itself.

"Why'd ye want ta talk with me, lass?" Dash asked, looking at her. "I ain't exactly the best o' sorts,"

"I know," Conyeri said, relaxing her tense muscles. "But you're a damn sight easier to talk to than _her_." She growled the last syllable out, filled with renewed rage now that Marisa wasn't physically present and acting relatively normally. "Do you have children?"

"Why'd ye want ta know that?" Dash asked, cocking a busy eyebrow. "I guess it don't matter why. I got me two lads, the eldest of which has himself a wee spratling."

"A wife?"

Dash's face darkened. "Used ta. She were the gem of all o' Ironforge, me wife. She committed suicide after she found out I'd been mixed up with the Defias. Jumped into the Great Forge, like me father did."

Conyeri mulled this over. "Why are you still here then?"

He sighed and cracked his knuckles absentmindedly. "Me youngest son's in the Stockade, lass. He calls himself Bruegal Ironknuckle- he forgot who he was down there. Bruegal was the name o' me other son, an' it's all he remembers. As long as I keep working for the Defias, I have access ta him. The Defias control the whole Stockade, see, under Master Thredd, so they can smuggle me in. I have to pay hefty, though."

"So you're a good person. You're just backed into a corner." Conyeri reasoned, catching sight of a washbasin on the other side of the room. She certainly felt like a wash.

"I wouldn't quite go that far, lass," he sighed. "I got myself into the Defias in the firs' place. I was young and poor, and me clan had lost all it's money tryin' to frame the man we thought pushed me Da into the Forge. I had no wife and no kids, and nothing to lose. When I did get richer, and find me wife, I wanted ta settle down- but once ye join the Brotherhood, ye never truly leave. We moved ta Stormwind and settled in the centre of Old Town, away from the hustle and bustle, but Runa's heart was always in Ironforge. She'd take the tram all the time, just to be there… I didn't know she was so unhappy… I'd've done something…" His voice became choked. "Look at me- spillin' me heart to a spratling."

"It's okay," she felt odd assuring the haggard man who made his living killing and stealing, but swallowed her prejudice. "You have a reason. That's why you're here. But I don't, other than lack of choice."

He scratched his chin under the bushy beard. "Ta be honest with ye, lass, there ain't no easy way out o' this. Not all o' the Defias are as altruistic as Miss Du'Paige."

"Altruistic my ass," she snarled. "You know what she did to me!"

"She's one o' the nicest, ta be honest with ye. She has her… indulgences, once in a while, but she's good at heart."

"How can you say that!" Conyeri rose from the chair, muscles protesting and her injured hand throbbing. "She delights in hurting people! She thinks she's some kind of Blackbird the Cowled figure, stealing from the 'rich' and giving to the poor- who are conveniently bolstering the ranks of the Defias!"

"Who's Blackbird the Cowled?" Dash asked in confusion, breaking Conyeri's rant.

"Oh," she relaxed. "A human legend- he was a hunter who didn't believe in 'enslaving' animals to do his bidding. He went around Elwyn Forest stealing from the wealthy lords who had summer houses out there and doled it out amongst the poorer townspeople of Goldshire."

"Sounds like a particularly nice Defias to me. He wore a red bandana?"

"Green," Conyeri insisted. "And you're getting off-topic."

"Oh, so sorry lass." He replied sarcastically. "Ye seem a wee bit too comfortable now. Maybe I should call Miss Du'Paige back in…?" he trailed off and grinned at Conyeri. Even as he spoke, the latch came apart and the door swung open. Marisa entered with urgency.

"Some crazy spratlings with daggers have been sighted. We need to move out to Bird Mountain," she said, while the men, one of whom Conyeri recognized as the thug who'd won her mothers jewelry box, formed a circle around the entrance. "We had planned on keeping you here 'till you fell asleep and moving you then, but we can't risk anything. There's been a warrant out for the recovery of the DeHayersae daughter, by some fancy official that used to live on the farm you bought. Alexton, I think. He worked with your father."

One of the men said something to the thug and he stiffened. "Ma'am, we need to move out now. They have three members of the City Guard with them"

Marisa nodded. "Shame they found this place- we'll have to forewarn the goblins not to deliver." She took Conyeri by the wrist and pulled her out of the small shack. The dazzling sunlight made her dizzy, but Marisa's grip was like Iron and she had to keep walking. Down onto the docks, they passed frenzied men and women in red bandanas loading crates onto a flotilla of small, fast boats that were tethered to the quay. They all saluted Marisa as she passed, even through their bustle. A ripple went around the assembled rogues, and Conyeri heard the phrase 'impact kobold' repeated by the Defias closest to them. They crossed the pier and clambered into the boat furthest downstream. Marisa, Conyeri, Dash and the thug were the only ones who boarded. The bow and stern lines were quickly slipped and the boat began floating away from the dock. Dash and the thug grabbed oars in the middle while Marisa quickly set sail, with one hand on the tiller.

"Hold on, lass!" Dash told Conyeri, who was nearly thrown overboard by a sudden lurch to starboard. She sat down and gripped the side, water slicking her hands. She quickly thought about escaping by actually jumping off, but the current was strong and the river rapidly widening, and Conyeri could hardly swim. She looked behind them to see that several of the ships had also left the docks, low in the water with crates of supplies and weapons. The small landing was retreating further into the skyline, but Conyeri could see a large group of people approaching from the forest, brandishing weapons. She longed to go and talk to them, to tell them about her plight and to be accepted by the just and righteous again, but one sidelong glance at her hand and the ink that patterned it were enough to bring tears to her eyes and break her fantasy.

"Where'll we de heading, Ma'am?" the thug said, grunting through his powerful oar strokes on the port side of the boat, which Dash was mimicking to the starboard. "Oh, and Master VanCleef send a message that he 'doesn't want to see your pretty little ass anywhere near the barn for at least a week after what you did'. His words, Ma'am."

Marisa chuckled. "More quality time to spend with Cony, Racun." She winked at him and pulled the sail in a bit. They were making speedy process down the river, and Cony could acutely notice the changes in terrain from her vantage point. On the right side, the loose orange soil of Westfall was slowing creeping into Elwyn's lush greenness. On the left bank, the thick hardwood trees obscured anything a couple of meters back into the forest, shady even in the afternoon sun. The weedy and marshy Duskwood land looked sinister.

"We're off to the little place we have on the edge of Addle's Stead. We were originally going straight to Camp RUTN."

"Wouldn't have been safe to take her there, really, since that feller put up the reward for her," Racun whistled. "500 gold for a girl. And it would go straight into the pocket of some already heinously rich Paladin or a Mage with pure gold robes. Assholes."

"Isn't Addle's Stead in, um, Duskwood?" Conyeri voiced her concern. Nobody from Westfall ever went into Duskwood, unless accompanies by a large guard and straight to Darkshire and back.

Marisa cast an incredulous glance her way. "You're not scared of a few rotting, infectious, ghouls, are you?"

"No," Conyeri huffed. "I just don't like the place. It seems a bit… off."

"I bet you'd rather a nice, handsome Paladin in shiny armour with a big sword-" Racun snorted under his breath. "Very funny. Keep rowing. Anyway, you want to be rescued, yes? But what will your rescuers think why they take off the glove- that I saw you take, by the way- and find your lovely new tattoo? They'll think you did it. That you killed your parents as an initiation rite and ran off to join the Defias. It'll be terrible- a young, pretty girl gone astray- but they'll get over it, and in a month you'll be another bandana'd face with a knife in a crowd."

Conyeri curled her fists. She'd grabbed some clothes- a loose, man's cotton shirt and some blackened leather trousers that were slung over the back of the chair- while she was talking with Dash, since being naked was incredibly degrading to her. Upon the Defias exodus from the landing, she had seen a crate of neatly arranged gloves and swiped one. So far it had been under her shirt, but Marisa was smarter than that. "Kitting up already? I'll have to admit, Blackened Defias Leather looks good on you." She grinned and Conyeri recoiled at the same feral gaze, but was then startled- it ebbed away and was replaced by self-restraint. Marisa, who Conyeri was finding harder and harder to refer to just as 'the Monster', turned back and looked at the horizon with a look of forlorn longing.

Conyeri shook that straight out of her head. She felt oddly comfortable with everything, and decided that this wasn't the correct feeling associated with having been brutally beaten and raped the night before, plus having her parents murdered. Or maybe it was- maybe victims felt a strange sort of correlation with their captors. What was that called? Stockholm Syndrome. Conyeri shivered at the thought of somebody actually genuinely liking Marisa or indeed any member of the bloodthirsty Defias Brotherhood. She had wary respect for Dash, she decided, knowing his circumstances, but was this reason to vanquish any of the prefabricated prejudice she owed the Defias? Surely if so many people thought something, then it must have some truth. There was no doubting the evil nature of the Defias, but their reasons, Conyeri supposed, were just. The nobles had cheated them, and they _had _been exiled. Equally, however, they could have become farmers or tradesmen, and not ran down the path of thievery. They also made no distinction between rich traders and normal merchants, and they had taken land and resources that were vital to the survival of Westfall. Not so much Elwyn, but the presence of Stormwind was too strong there to launch a full-scale takeover.

A boot in the back stopped Conyeri mid-thought. Marisa stood over her, Racun having taken the tiller as the river was thinning too much to row properly. Dash was brooding silently, for which Conyeri felt wholly responsible, having brought up such touchy subjects. "Right, Cony. Listen up, 'cause if I have to repeat this again it will be at your funeral. Addle's Stead isn't a very nice place- there's all sorts of beasties and zombies about just past the borders. We have it pretty tightly defended, but if you stray, you will regret it. Try and run, we'll be seeing you in a casket next, got it?"

Conyeri nodded as the boot pressured her back further. "Good. And remember, you still only have until tomorrow morning to decide what wins out- your pride or your desire to remain alive."

"If I were to leave, I'd be put in the Stockade, right? Well, isn't that Defias controlled? Wouldn't I be okay with the tattoo?" Conyeri figured this out. A life in prison didn't seem that bad compared to life in servitude to evil.

"Have you ever _been_ to the Stockade? Not only is it horrible, but also you'd be surrounded by about 300 of deadliest enemies of the Alliance, all of them male. You thought I was nasty? Think how they'd be after five years without sunshine or girls."

"Gay?" Racun suggested, but Marisa shot him a glare that could drill through rocks. "My apologies, Ma'am, didn't mean to offend no-one."

"You have triple shift when we get to Duskwood." She spat at him. Conyeri was surprised. She knew that Marisa had a taste for, well, girls, but the way she talked about VanCleef, it seemed as though there was something going on there.

Racun grumbled and itched his face under his rough mask as wiggled the tiller around as they rounded a bend. The land was become more and more Duskwooden by the minute. The other ships had already docked a way back on the Westfall side of the river. Conyeri was growing more apprehensive, the back of her neck pricking uncomfortably. Marisa's quick eyes picked up on this.

"You can feel it?" Conyeri nodded. "Your senses are nearly as good as mine- with training, they could be better."

"I don't want good senses. I want a nice, warm home, some goretusk liver pie and a pair of doting parents," Conyeri retorted, crossing her arms and turning away. She tensed her muscles expecting a beating, but none came. She turned around and saw Marisa staring at her, with no desire or hatred, just a puzzled look.

"You're sixteen- by that age I had killed a man. Several, maybe. I lost track. One of them was my father." Her voice was surprisingly soft. "I did what I had to. I survived. I guess not every sixteen-year-old is like me. You had everything and lost more. I took from you the only thing you had left. You should be a gibbering wreck, but you would even steal from us. Defias runs in your blood, even though you choose not to acknowledge it. The organization isn't as two-dimensional as you think."

"I _know_. That's the difference- you act for yourselves. You take and give nothing back. You burn and never build. You kill and never nurture. Seems pretty two dimensional to me,"

"Then your vision must be messed up," Marisa growled. "How can you be convinced of that when you heard Dashel's past? How can you, concretely, say that everyone who wears a red bandana is evil?"

"Because…" Conyeri thought about what she was saying. "Because you don't _need_ to do these things. You said that member self-initiate? Well, they could just as easily get work on a farm or begin training for a class. There are so many things they could do, with a bit of hard work, but they choose the easy route."

"Let me give you and example," Marisa said through gritted teeth. "There's this girl- she's too old to be adopted and too young to marry, work or take a class. She's recently orphaned. She's got a tattoo on her hand. What's she going to do? Waltz up to Stormwind and go and explain it all to the nice, helpful guards? Get a job she doesn't have the skills for? Beg?"

"No," Conyeri looked into the murky water. "She can't do any of those things."

"That's right," Marisa smiled behind her. "So, where could she go, quickly, mind you, since she doesn't have any money or food, that could give her a roof over her head, a ho meal and the chance to do something with her life?"

"She could join the Chapel of Light. Say she reformed or something."

Marisa knelt down behind Conyeri and spoke to her. "Not when to a Paladin, the dark magic coming from that tattoo is like a human knocking on the Orgrimmar gates and asking to see Thrall."

"There's dark magic in this?" Conyeri asked, looking at the mark. "I can't sense it."

"That's because I put it there and I'm a master mage, duh."

"I didn't know mages dealt with dark magic- that's more a warlock thing." Conyeri said.

"You learn a few things in the business," Marisa replied, reaching over and brushing her fingers over the tattoo. Conyeri's body exploded with magical pleasure, and she toppled down from the crude wooden bench se had been seated on, spasming wildly. "That's a succubus spell. Learned it from a gnome who liked gambling a little too much. He couldn't pay off his debt in full, so to offset the rest, he taught some of our mages the dark arts. Some of them got it, but most couldn't properly control the magic. We called them Conjurers and set them at the very front of our lines in the Deadmines, inevitably cannon fodder to whichever 'adventurer' decides he or she is big enough to challenge us."

"I think you went a bit far, Ma'am," Racun observed, leaning over the tiller to look at Conyeri. "She's out for the count."

"Blast it." Marisa grumbled. "After all that trouble, all she seems to do is fall asleep on me."

"Yeh'd quite like that, wouldn't ye," Dash spoke for the first time. "Her on ye."

"Know your place, Dashel," she frowned, picking the comatose Conyeri up in her arms and laying her out on the bench. "And that was not it."

"Why so reserved now, eh?" Dash stood up from his bench. "Ye flirt the poor lass silly and beat the crap out o' her afterwards. It ain't the kind o' behaviour that would endear the Defias ta her."

He was hit squarely in the chest with a bolt of icy magic that set him skidding backwards, head thumping against the side of the boat. Dash groaned and rubbed his head. "Right. Sorry, Miss Du'Paige. I'll keep me tongue next time."

"Next time, I'll be the one keeping it, Dashel." She warned him, letting the magic evaporate from her hands. "That's a promise."

"Aye," he said, standing up and dusting himself off, offering her a salute. This seemed to satisfy the unstable mage, who set about making sure Conyeri was okay. The gesture was nice, but the place that she put her hands would have disturbed the girl if she were sentient. Dash felt a duty to help her, seeing as though she had been thrust into such dislikable circumstances, purely because Marisa was wanton with her desires.

"Whichever she chooses, she's coming with me," Marisa mentioned nonchalantly as she glanced at her pocket watch. "It's getting close to three. We should dock in a minute" Racun offered an affirmative. "If she agrees, she'll be Defias. If she disagrees, I'll take her for myself. Forcefully."

"That's probably not the best way to win her affection, Ma'am," Racun said, wary, but he needn't have worried.

"I'm not vying for her affection," there was a hint of annoyance in Marisa's voice. "Honestly, I just like asserting my dominance over things I didn't used to control. My life, my body, my mind. And I like sex. It's nice- something nice in a horrible world."

Neither of them replied to her musings. It was not unusual for Marisa Du'Paige to become more vulnerable in private, however tough she appeared to be. She was only a couple of years into her twenties. They sailed in silence and soon a rickety jetty came into view along the river.

"Edwin is old enough to be my father." She suddenly said, hands tracing the outline of her tattoo. "In fact, Edwin was named my surrogate father after my own died in the riots. He never really lived up to the title."

They docked and Marisa scooped Conyeri up and jumped onto the pier as Racun tied their boat up. Dash walked slowly, the frostbolt still deadening his limbs. The thug hefted a small sack of food from the boat before following Marisa and Dash to the forest's edge. They had to pick through some overgrown foliage to get to the treeline, from which they could see Addle's Stead through the thin trees. Disturbing shadows danced along the walls of the derelict barn. Marisa cawed, three times, and the shadows suddenly all stopped their patrolling and began flitting towards them. The unconscious Conyeri squirmed and groaned, her heightened senses exploding with danger by themselves. Two masked Defias unstealthed and saluted to Marisa, who nodded and let them flank her and Dash, as Racun covered their rear. A wolf bayed from a distance, and then closer, but the guards hardly flinched.

Marisa met with man in charge, who was distinguished only by the miniscule jewel set into the hilt of his dagger. They spoke in hushed voices briefly before the party was led into a derelict barn. A mound of hay was cleared out of the far stall and a trapdoor was revealed and the padlock removed.

-

_Marisa Du'Paige was fifteen years old. The stonemasons had just been exiled from Stormwind, her father among them. He was a good friend to Edwin VanCleef, a spirited upstart engineer with a mind like lightning. She saw the gates of Stormwind closing on her and wondered what was happening briefly, but soon figured it out. A fat noble, his jerkin embossed with gold thread, was outside the gates, wringing his chubby hands together. He shouted at the assembled Stonemasons._

"_The Council of Stormwind apologizes for your plight, gentlemen, but we are afraid nothing can be done. The money simply isn't there after our lands have been adequately militarized. It was assumed that you did this out of the good of your hearts, not for pay. Stormwind no longer has the resources to support your guild."_

_Marisa watched his chubby cheeks lift in the ghost of a smile, and felt a burning hatred seize hold of her. She grabbed the dagger from her father's sheath and hurled it straight at the noble. Her aim was true and her arm was strong. The dagger sank through his fatty chest, and his lovely gold outfit was stained red. He lifted his eyes and stared at Marisa, who watched triumphantly as the light left them. He slumped to the ground and the guards shouted and rushed towards him, but the riot had been implemented and would not be stopped. Men and their wives rushed forward with any weapon they could muster: daggers, rolling pins, bare hands and feet were the most popular of them._

_Marisa had a kitchen knife from under her shirt and her reason. She started forward madly, but a hand grabbed her from behind. She whirled around and thrashed wildly, feeling the dagger sink into her assailant's stomach._

_Except it wasn't an assailant. It was her father. "Issa, I don't want you getting hurt up there- ohh…" he noticed the knife protruding from his stomach. "Ohh…" he tried again, glancing from the blade to Marisa. "Ohh…"_

_And then he collapsed down onto the floor and died._

_The gates of Stormwind clanged shut before the enraged artisans could push any further. Edwin VanCleef, with the attention of the entire gathered congregation, bent down and tore the bloodstained red shirt from the fate noble. He tied it around his face and shouted a feral cry to the guards at the top of the wall._

"_Defiance!" he cried from underneath the material, but it came out muffled. The craftsmen repeated what they'd heard, which was to become a name that would terrify for years to come._

"_Defias!"_

Marisa woke up from the familiar dream, eyes wet with the formation of tears. Conyeri slept on the thick bed of hay next to her, and Racun on her other side. Dash was on duty above, sitting in the barn in case anything were to go amiss. It was the middle of the night, but Marisa didn't feel tired- the affect of Conyeri's presence kept her on-edge. She kept berating herself for being so self-indulgent and letting a weakness for pretty girls cloud her professionalism. It was already done now, she supposed, so wishing for it not to have happened was a waste.

They had eaten shortly after arriving- a plain meal of tough bread and cold meats, washed down with weak ale from one of the large kegs in the barn basement. At about five, they'd slept, Dash slipping Conyeri a sleeping draught to make sure she didn't wake from her blackout and cause a ruckus.

Marisa rolled over to look at Conyeri. Her body seemed fragile and childish while she slept, but Marisa's growling lust still tickled her consciousness. She bade it leave and concentrated on subtly healing the girl's wounds, numerous as they were. She felt sickened at herself for doing that. Why did she let these primal urges control her so often? Why did she relish in the trickle of blood on her blade or the racking shivers of pleasure that accompanied a stint in the bedroom? Was she really that low a grade of human that she lacked basic self-control?

Marisa sighed and finished healing Conyeri, who mumbled lightly at the ebb of magic from her body. She saw in the girl something she never connected with after the Riot- innocence. A naïveté born of simple lack of worldly experience. A child.

_I am a sick, twisted human being. I don't deserve what I have. _

The sentiments plagued Marisa's mind like a pestilent wound, sapping her resolve. She'd painted herself as a stoic and slightly aloof person, a genius for her age with magic and skilled with the blade, as high up the chain of Defias command as she dared. It had not been only her abilities that had got her the spot; people were awfully simple when it came to 'favours'. She wasn't proud of what she'd done, or indeed what she was doing, but there were precious few other options if she wanted recognition.

The way a man had sex told a great deal about his character that he wouldn't normally reveal. Edwin VanCleef liked being dominated, but Mr. Smite preferred to set it to a story, and he would sit and recount tales of his homeland of Mulgore with fondness in his eyes before calling her his Corani and preening her like a little girl. She had been with Erlan Drudgemoor, was a little on the small side, and once even seduced Surena Caledon. All of these people had propelled her to higher rank, by either promoting her themselves or offering her jobs that would get her noticed higher-up. She sometimes wondered if this made her a whore of sorts, to fuck her way through the Defias ranks, but can to the conclusion that if she liked it, it wasn't whoring. I was mutual gratification.

Conyeri stirred and rolled over, her loose shirt riding up to her chest. A pang of lust bothered Marisa again, and this time she couldn't quell it. She reached out and touched the hot flesh of Conyeri's back softly, reveling in the little spark as she connected with the talent that laid dormant inside her. Her hand sought a wider area, to further increase the feeling, and she shuffled over and placed her bare arms over Conyeri's flat stomach.

_Pervert. Cradle-Snatcher._

The warnings were lost in the miasma of magic that Marisa was immersed in. She wasn't a cradle-snatcher or anything of the sort: Conyeri was sixteen, which was the age of consent in Elwyn. Even if she wasn't really consenting. And the way that Marisa looked at it, it didn't matter. She was an addict looking for another fix of magic or sex or preferably both at the same time. It saddened her to look at what she'd ended up like, compared to her childhood self, but at the same time it thrilled her. It was good to be bad, to have the power to choose if someone lives or dies. She was playing god.

All these different thoughts clashed and merged in her head as Marisa continued to let herself roam Conyeri's body. Her hands stroked through the thick, chocolate-brown hair, she breathed in the scent.

-

Conyeri stayed as still as she could, but it was hard with the Monster's hands roaming in all her sensitive places. She wanted to cry out, but knew that nobody would come and help her. The Monster was the most senior officer here. The only advantage that the poor girl currently had was that the Monster was too wrapped up in her gratifications that she didn't know that Conyeri was awake. If she was awake, she might be beaten. Or humiliated in front of Dash, which she felt a strange repulsion against. The sleeping potion had been a placebo, she guessed, since she had woken up on being deposited in the basement. Probably Dash, thinking to give her more time to make her mind up.

The odd thing about tonight was that Conyeri couldn't detach herself. Yesterday had been so traumatic and unreal that she'd been out of it. But today, after fully absorbing her new plight, she felt personally involved. Every touch made her body throb, every whispered word felt like liquid metal pouring into her ear. The Monster was getting more frenzied now, hands gripping at her clothes. Magic was also being sapped from her, Conyeri realized, wondering to what end the Monster was enjoying herself. Was the Monster actually obsessed with magic? Obsessed with sex? With power? All of the above?

There, on the hay, with Racun snoring beside her, Marisa lost herself again.

-

Conyeri still hadn't made her decision when meek light filtered through the cracked floorboards above. The Monster had fallen asleep, but she had stayed awake, trying to reason with herself. Was her pride worth the life, or possibly worse? She couldn't see the Monster letting her go that easily. What kind of life was she expected to live?

She weighed the pros and cons. On the minus side, she'd be becoming something hated by the Alliance. She'd have to learn shadowy arts, to kill and maim and steal, the very thought of which made bile rile in her throat. But she'd be safe. People like her, people who probably shared the same doubts,'d surround her. She'd have a roof over her head, supper on the table and a reason to keep on living.

She'd be expected to do whatever Marisa said, though. It made her uneasy, how close she was lying to a woman who had forced her twice and seemed mildly addicted to magic. A woman who did not hesitate to beat her, who found bloodshed and killing fun. Did she have qualms with doing these things? Was she really two-dimensional, as she had led Conyeri to believe?

"Get up."

Dash came down through the trapdoor and roused them. Conyeri leapt to her feet and quickly collected her clothes, which the Monster had strewn about. Her shirt was ripped at the sleeve, but nothing major. She took the stolen glove from her pocket in defiance and slipped it on, fingers poking through the holes where the glove cut off just above knuckle level. She tucked the long arm of her shirt into the larger end and looked to Dash, who looked back. Something passed between them- an understanding, that nothing would ever be the same.

The Monster came up behind her and stretched her arms above her head. "So, Cony. Deal or no deal?" she asked, face split in a grin that betrayed a bit of apprehension but not enough to be full-blown concern.

The whole world waited on that moment. Conyeri had figured out what would become of her either way, by the possessive hand that had draped over her waist all night.

"Deal," she said, trying to keep herself composed. Her pride had not been strong enough to condemn her to a life of slavery and eventual death. As rotten as she felt with herself, a million justifications rattled her brain when she questioned her choice. Dash regarded her with a sad gaze that seemed to agree with her, that she had been backed into the corner. Racun's face was unreadable as he pulled on his tunic. Conyeri did not want to see the Monster's expression, but was treated to it anyway. The Monster walked around to face her, with a face betraying something that Conyeri hadn't fully expected: glee was there, and so was satisfaction, but also a vague disappointment, which she couldn't fathom the exact origin of. She prided herself on her ability to read people, faces especially, but the Monster's forlorn look didn't quite fit her knowledge of the reasons behind everything.

"Good, good," she grinned, showing a dazzling set of teeth. "We're off to Camp RUTN then."

"What does that stand for?" Conyeri asked, trying to forget what she'd just done.

"Camp Right Under Their Noses," Dash explained. "It's in a huge maze of caves below Sentinel Hill that used to be a mine. Now it's where the Defias train all of their recruits."

"You can tell her that in confidence now, but that doesn't mean you can shout it so loud." Racun grumbled, strapping on his scabbard. "You never know who's listening."

"Yes, yes," the Monster sighed, rolling its eyes. "Lets get on our way, then. We've got a lot to do before tonight," she winked in Conyeri's direction. Shivers ricocheted up her spine at the signal, but she tried to show no outward sign of her dismay. She was passed the point where she cared any more. She thought it would take more, but already she was beginning to cement the existence of Marisa as the Monster in her mind. It helped a lot to think of her as something that wasn't human and thus had no conscience.

The Monster pulled something out of the bag that the food had been in. It was a large square of red linen. She folded it in half and held it up.

"Will you do it, or do I have the honour?"

-

Hello everyone. 10k chapter, omg. I hope you liked it. If you did, leave a review. If you didn't leave a review with some constructive criticism. I tried to keep the characters as canon as possible, but personality had obviously been embellished.

Thanks,

Emmy


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hey, back with Chapter 2 really quickly I know, but I just love this story. I have so much planned for Cony in the future. There's been another Defias story released just after my one. It's a little confusing to read but stop by it if you have time.

I do not own Warcraft- if I did…well…

This story contains blood, some implied sex, some naughty things we usually associate with Blood Elves (I think) and someone with OCD.

The Brotherhood

Chapter II

Baros Alexton scratched the itchy layer of stubble that was beginning to bristle from his strong chin. There were about fifty people queued up outside the City Hall in Cathedral Square, all claiming to have information about Harrigan DeHayersae's missing daughter. Their minds were probably more focused on the large rewards he had put out for her, rather than the actual wellbeing of the girl.

Baros did not know the girl intimately- his work had made trips to Westfall rare, and so he had only known her as a child, but he owed a great debt to Harrigan, and a seething hatred towards the Defias. It was nearly seven in the morning, at which time he would be expected to open the doors. Sometimes- only sometimes, mind you- he was regretful that he hadn't followed Edwin's example and left the city, and all the mounds of paperwork and debt that it was steeped in. His hatred for what his old friend had become, however, was enough to immediately dismiss such horrific thoughts.

The nervous boy he was employing to tend to his trivial means- Paul or Peter or something- shuffled up to him. "Sh-should we open the doors, Sir?"

Baros sighed and took the final draught of his steaming tea and nodded, pushing himself further up in the wood-back chair. Paul-Peter walked over to the door and unlocked and unbolted it, letting it creep open. The first person to step through the door was none other than King Varian Wrynn.

"Your majesty!" Baros said, alarmed. "Have I kept your waiting?"

"For mere minutes," he waved Baros's concern away with a gauntleted hand. "I am merely here to discuss with you the Defias and how we could use the girl to finally eradicate them thoroughly,"

Baros's eyes glowed excitedly. As a young man, he had mourned along with the Alliance when King Wrynn had gone missing, and the news that Defias had abducted him had fuelled Baros's hatred of them. He had always had a weakness for hero-worship. "I have had many thoughts, your majesty, on the subject."

"That is good." Varian sat on one of the chairs across from the eager man. "I have something to aid your search," he pulled a small scroll from his belt. "It is a Warrant of Discountability, signed by me personally. It allows you to do whatever you want, however ruthless you must be, to find the girl, and thus the Defias base of operations."

Baros took the Warrant with awe. Such documents weren't given lightly, and then only to great army generals and heroes. "I thought we already had, your majesty- the Deadmines in Moonbrook,"

"That was a step in the right direction," the King agreed. "However, it is certain that they know that we know. The Deadmines will be one workshop amongst possibly hundreds- only the foolish still imagine that the Defias are merely pickpockets and pillage the occasional farm. I have seen their cruelty first-hand,"

"I do not doubt that, your majesty," Baros said. "I have many theories about Conyeri DeHayersae, most of which are horrific to even think on. I knew her as a child and have fair assessment of her temperament- I am reasonably sure that she would not have joined the Defias out of her own free will,"

"You knew her as a child, sir, not as a teen. People at that age are unstable: they tend to change their outlooks on life quickly and erratically. There is no knowing of her current personality, other than reports from the children of surrounding farmsteads. Which I presume you have?"

"Yes, your majesty," Baros leafed through a sheath of papers and took a dozen out. "They said that she was friendly, and outgoing, and loved her parents very much. None of them would believe that she had done such a thing herself,"

"The sentiments of other teenagers," Varian scowled. "How are we to know they aren't embroiled in this themselves?"

"They're barely adults," Baros felt uneasy. He tensed up in his chair. Talking with the King was exercising a great deal of his energy. "Though the Defias don't discriminate based on age,"

"Exactly. The question now is, do we issue a Warrant of Recovery or a Warrant of Arrest? Do we go by worst-case scenario or assume she's innocent?"

"I would advise to hold out on the innocence," the architect advised, again scratching his beard. "If she truly desires to find us, then there will be signs. She was a spirited girl- she will leave clues. If she is guilty, which I find difficult to fathom, then the Defias will cover her up impeccably, and we she will disappear off the radar completely."

"How will we monitor for clues?" the King asked, a calculating gleam in his eyes. "We can double the pay of our informants in Westfall- take the money from the fund for new civilian housing in the Mage Quarter- and send some adventurers to constantly attack the Deadmines. You can send orders to Stoutmantle, and we'll relocate half of the guard force at Northshire Abbey- there's nothing there that could harm the trainees. The Defias presence is weak, and they have lost a large amount of interest in the region. Put the guards around Westfall. Are you getting all of this down?"

Baros's quill was scratching away even as the question was asked. "Yes, your majesty," he said, smiling deviously. VanCleef would get his recompense after all.

"Good. Now, I'll want a report on your progress in a few days. Deliver it personally, and don't make it public knowledge that we are masterminding the capture progress out of anything other than concern for the girl," Varian stood up and made his leave. Paul-Peter opened the door awkwardly for him.

"Boy," Baros motioned for him to shut the door a moment. "You repeat any of this to anyone, you've not only lost your job, okay?"

"Yes, sir!" P-P said, bowing comically lowly. Baros thought it safe to assume that he wouldn't be getting any trouble out of this one.

"Open the door, then."

-

Conyeri whimpered in pain as the wooden sword caught her in the ribs again. She hated all of this, all of the pain and the fighting, all of the odd looks and jeering glances. There were over fifty people in Camp RUTN, and 49 of them seemed to outwardly hate her.

The one who did not, of course, was Dash. Though he seemed to have many duties to perform since they arrived, and could spare precious few moments to come and talk to her.

The man she was fighting now was a full head taller than her and twice as heavy. The first few fights, Conyeri had tried to weasel out of actually physically doing anything by dodging around, but the Monster had quickly put a stop to that. The threat of a bout with her, in which Conyeri was sure to lose, painfully, hung thick in the air as she barely parried the man's next stroke, the force of the blow making her teeter on her heels. As soon as they had arrived at Camp RUTN, Conyeri had been placed against a string of opponents, trying to determine what skills she had. So far, she had epically failed the physical combat tests, and when she had tried stealthing, she looked more like she had suddenly lost the entire colour in her face.

The orphan, however, was determined to prove herself as anything other than a mage. That would mean training directly under the Monster, who was sure to make her life more miserable than it was now. The man took advantage of her weakened balance and barreled into her, knocking her to the ground with a hard thump. Her back exploded with pain as she fell on the hard rock of the cavern floor. The wooden sword poked into her throat as the man declared himself the victor, before striding off to join his group of big, thuggish men. Conyeri's thoughts blackened and she muttered some words that she should perhaps not know at him before picking herself up, anxious that if she stayed down for too long, the Monster would get her back on her feet, or keep her on her back. In front of the rest of the cavern, too, which Conyeri paled at the thought of. It was a popular sentiment that the Monster was an object of desire, and Conyeri was making no friends by commanding so much of her attention.

The Monster came up behind her and chuckled. "Looks like you're not cut out for swordplay. And you didn't do too well on the rogue front, either. Looks like you're a mage."

"Can I not try another one? One that can't just crush me before I have a chance to fight it?"

The Monster frowned. "They're usually able to crush you. These paladins and warriors are even worse, because they're actually trained. You stand no chance if you can't beat one of _them_," She motioned towards the assembled rabble.

"Give me another go," she insisted, muscled tensing. The clout on the side of her head came, as expected, but she pulled back, turning it into a graze. "You're deliberately putting me up against opponents I can't beat. You _want _me to train as a mage, even if it isn't necessarily the best thing to do."

"So?" The Monster gave her a disbelieving look. "You thought _I, _of all people, wouldn't do something like that?"

"I thought you held the greater good of the Defias in higher esteem." Conyeri flinched as she said that. The greater good of the Defias was not something she wanted to contribute to, even indirectly.

Marisa scowled at her. "I do- but you're obviously a mage."

"How can you know if I don't try as a fighter beforehand?"

The higher-ranking Defias sighed and shifted her weight to the other leg. "I suppose not. Geylan, come over here!" she shouted, the sound reverberating off the sound wards placed around the cavern. A wiry man in his early twenties looked over his shoulder, from where he was sharpening a plain dagger, and needed Marisa's call.

"Yes, Ma'am?" he asked, eyeing Conyeri briefly.

She placed a hand on his weak shoulder. The gesture itself was even sexual. "I want you to have a practice bout with Conyeri. Do as you would for anyone else."

"You sure, Ma'am?" His eyes flickered up and down Conyeri's leather-clad body, a look of pity on him.

"Absolutely. She's… stronger than she looks," Marisa winked at him and stepped back. Geylan sheathed the real dagger and grabbed a wooden on from a crate. Conyeri tightened her hands around her own, the splinters reminding her of the night she had first gotten mixed up with the Defias. The older man began circling her, his feet always in a maximally balanced position. Conyeri tried to imitate it, but it hurt her calves.

Geylan lashed out with his dagger, aiming for her stomach, so Conyeri pulled herself back and twirled around the blow. Expecting this, the more experienced fighter brought his weight onto his back foot and pushed back with his elbow, catching Conyeri's shoulder and throwing her off-balance. She teetered, but regained her footing and scuffled back.

"You sure I should go all-out? I'd snap the little twig in half!" Marisa just nodded to him and he continued, crouching low and driving up. Terrified, Conyeri looked around for something to push herself off, but the rock wall was too far away. Geylan grabbed her waist and tried to force her down, but she quickly used his shoulders as a platform and rolled over his back, landing on her knees painfully.

Others around the cavern began to watch with more interest now. The thug who had just overpowered Conyeri turned from his mates and observed the battle, a speculative quirk to his dull features.

"Shit!" Conyeri felt her body lose contact with the floor as Geylan crabbed her ankle and pulled it out from under her. Days of working on the farm had strengthened her, but not enough for this intense melee. She rolled over and sprang back to her feet just before the slightly larger man slashed his wooden dagger. Finding his target no longer present, Geylan moved to turn his slash into a horizontal swipe and take Cony's neck, but she ducked and rammed her own into his stomach.

"Stop!" Marisa said halfheartedly, her gaze icy. "Bout goes to Conyeri, as much as I hate to admit it."

Geylan stopped rubbing his stomach in pain and looked at her. "For a spratling, she's got good reflexes. Just lacking in strength, I'd guess, and anyone can be trained to be stronger. Marzon would love her, she's so quick."

"She can't stealth, though. He'd never take someone who couldn't do the simplest trick in the Rogue book." Marisa insisted, quickly losing hope of getting to personally torture Conyeri through her training. "And she's got lots of mana."

"It's not mana yet, ma'am. Just Talent, which can be shaped into mana, or rage, or energy, when she chooses a class."

"But the stealth!" Marisa again mentioned, alluding to Conyeri's pitiful attempt.

"No offense meant, ma'am, but when you first joined the Brotherhood, could you stealth?"

Marisa glared at him. "Well… no, but-"

"Then there you have it. She can train as a rogue- she's got took much agility to waste on spellcasting. If you want, she could so a bit of supplementary magic also."

"I'd like that very much," Marisa cooed, looking from Geylan to Conyeri. "I guess I've lost this round, Cony, but at least I can look forward to our supplementary… lessons,"

With that she walked off, stopping to smile and wink at some other men along the way.

"She's a real bitch," Geylan said off-hand, checking himself for bruises. "Sorry about all of that. Are you hurt?"

Conyeri shook her head, amazed at his sudden change of personality. "Thank you for getting me out of that, but I wish you hadn't mentioned supplementary lessons. She'll be livid later."

"Apologies," he gave her a weak smile. "I dunno to what level she's into you, but it must be bad if you don't even be in one of her classes,"

"It's alright," she said, pulling off the heavy leather tunic. Her undershirt was awfully damp and clung to her like a cheap perfume. "It's nice that someone will actually talk to me,"

"I was in your position recently," Geylan explained. "I got kicked out of SI:7 for selling poisons to Booty Bay, and indirectly, the Horde. They called me a traitor and sent me packing with nothing 'cept my pack and my clothes. I couldn't find any work, so I got into some shady-er dealings. It led me here."

"I'm sorry," Conyeri didn't know exactly what to say. She knew how it was to lose everything. "If it helps, I'm in the same boat."

"You used to work for SI:7?" he asked.

"No, I don't have anyone left," her voice choked slightly.

He put a calming hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry. It'll all work out in the end. And you're lucky, Marzon is the best instructor. On his good days."

"I'm beginning to think my life is a perpetually bad day," she sighed and flexed her bad hand. It was mostly healed, but very sore, and she was left landed to boot. It made the fighting even more painful than usual. It felt nice to have someone be nice to her for the first time since what seemed like ever, but was really a few days.

"I got some news for ye!" Dash's heavily accented voice reverberated around the chamber. "Fresh from Stormwind itself!"

Conyeri twirled around. "What's that?"

"Well," he licked his lips. "The King himself is personally involved, and that old fart Alexton is in charge o' yeh're case. They think yeh're innocent so far, but they got their doubts."

"I _am_ innocent," she grumbled, but let him continue.

"Well, they're tryin' to eradicate the Defias through ye. They've moved a load o' soldiers to Westfall and started payin' their informants here more. They're sendin' a shitload more wussy adventurers into the Deadmines, too."

"He's serious," Geylan remarked. "Then again, he did get abducted and tortured by the Defias for many years. He has a right."

"Why was he abducted?" Conyeri asked, tendrils of disgust wiggling in her stomach. She had seen King Varian Wrynn a few times since he had returned, and he seemed nice, if not a little turgid.

"He was on his way to speak with the Horde chiefs," Dash explained. "The whole conference was meant ta be a peace talk, but on the way through Dustwallow Marsh, he was attacked by some Orc scouts who were 'gainst the Alliance. He defeated 'em, but was grievously injured. The Defias in the area, after a lengthy discussion, decided ta capture 'im and save 'is life. They kept him on their little island for many years, and then orchestrated his 'escape' exactly at the time when the Alliance needed 'im most. This distracted a big amount of interest from the Defias, so we finished buildin' the ship in the Deadmines an' took everythin' important outta the place."

Conyeri fiddled with the hem of her shirt. All this contradicting talk was beginning to fray her brain. The Defias did things for good, for bad, for personal gain and for the 'greater good'. She could not accurately see, at this point in time, which was the most prevalent. She knew that they _were_ evil, and that they did many things that could be deemed horrific. Since being pushed into everything, however, she was beginning to see a different side of the Defias- one that almost bordered on philanthropic. It was too soon to tell what exactly they were, or how to judge them, she decided.

"Lass, are ye listenin'?" Dash asked. Conyeri shook herself out of the queasy moral battle that was going on in her mind and apologized to him.

"No. I was thinking on some stuff,"

"Must have been pretty important 'stuff' ta not listen to one of yer higher-ups," Dash observed, his eyes smiling at her. "Now as I understand it, yeh're off ta meet Marzy. Good luck ta yeh, lass,"

"I'm hoping I won't need it," she smiled at him and he jogged off on his stubby dwarvern legs to the exit of the cavern.

That left her and Geylan alone together. She turned and peeked at him, worried that he would revert back to the stiff person he had been whilst talking to Marisa, but she needn't have worried. He smiled goofily and shook out his long blonde hair like a dog before tucking it behind his ears and beginning to take his armour off. "We'd best freshen up before going to see Marzy- um, Marzon. Don't call him Marzy to his face."

"I will as long as he doesn't call me Conzy." She retorted dryly, picking up on the friendliness and nickname that both Dash and Geylan had spoken of Marzon with. He was one of the most feared assassins she knew! And here she was, about to chum up with him. Never had she thought it.

Geylan stripped to his underclothes and wiped sweat off his brow. The only problem with being underground was that the temperature was at a fairly constant warm, which really wore you out when you were fighting.

The main cavern was arranged like a circle, with smaller cubbies leading off it on all sides. Some were natural, other evidently the result of a well-placed stick of dynamite, which Conyeri wondered about. Surely they would have heard that sore to explosion up on Sentinel Hill?

Conyeri didn't have a cubby. She was forced to sleep in the Monster's one, which was the biggest and best furnished. Geylan's was relatively small, but filled with little things that made it criminally personal. It had perhaps hundreds of sheets of paper strewn about, many about poisons and techniques to administer them. Conyeri kept her nausea down as she reminded herself of the grim reality she faced. His bed was a spongy mattress covered in thin linen, which was pushed to the edge of the space, which was about 3 metres wide and 6 deep. Not a big place to keep everything you owned in the world. Clothes were lying haphazardly around, and Geylan scooped them up, his face slightly red.

"I don't usually have guests around," he explained, shoving them into a satchel. "I can understand when you really don't want to go back to the bitch's room, but Marzy isn't fond of smelly people."

"You talk about him like he's your mother," she speculated, watching him go about his hurried clear out. "How old are you, Geylan?"

"What would you ask?" He seemed surprised. When Conyeri had first seen him, he'd looked a few years older than the Monster. Now, she wasn't so sure- he seemed to be getting younger by the minute. She could even see some spots clinging to his hairline.

"Um… because I was trying to make conversation?"

He cocked an eyebrow and gathered up a sheath of papers. "I'm twenty. I started my Rogue training at 13."

"So young…" Conyeri mused. People didn't usually go out and ask for training until they had left home. "How did you convince Master Mathias Shaw to train you?"

"Ah, well," He blushed. "When he was younger- a lot younger- he liked a girl who worked in the Tannery in Old Town. She was eighteen and he was sixteen, and they spend a great deal of time together. And then, um, D-Mathias left for a long, drawn-out mission, not realizing that he'd got the Tannery girl… pregnant."

"Ah," Conyeri echoed, the pieces clicking together. "I see."

There was a period of silence after that. Conyeri was standing next to Geylan Shaw. Mathias Shaw's son. Who joined the Defias? Had the Master really expelled his own son from his guild? That must have been heartbreaking.

"We need to go and wash. I'm not allowed into Miss Du'Paige's rooms, but I'll wait outside."

Conyeri agreed and they walked over to the large, central cubby. Warm light radiated from behind the thin curtains that partitioned it off from the main cavern. While she had seen the Monster walk in the opposite direction earlier, it would be like her to stealth back, just to catch Conyeri unawares. Nervously pulling the drape over, Geylan gave her a thumbs up before she entered.

It was a big chamber; at least three times the size of Geylan's. Marisa had a plush feather bed and silky covers, and next to it was her own, similar to the ex-SI:7 agent's. Weapons hung neatly on the walls and a huge bookcase occupied a large section of the eastern side. A trunk with her clothes was at the foot of her bed, and a table and chairs for private eating and guests was set up in the remaining space. It was nicer than the rest, but still not luxury.

If Marisa was around, Conyeri couldn't see her. She crossed to her bed and opened the duffel bag of basic clothes and provisions she had been provided with. It hit her then, when she grabbed a pair of preaches and a shirt, that she was immensely relieved. Relived that she had some friends here. Relived that she wouldn't have to face the Monster more often than she had to. Relieved that maybe, just maybe, the Defias had some morals.

-

"We need a healer. There's no way to get though those cursed mines without someone to heal me up."

"But you're a paladin. Can't you heal yourself?"

"I can try, but then I have less mana to try and kill the Defias bastards with."

Alteon scratched his long, pinky-blue ear as he sat and watched his friends argue. Only hours before, Gyran Stoutmantle (though he was a bit of a scary one) had ushered them in for a quick briefing. They were one of the ten groups of skilled fighters who were to launch a full-scale attack on the Deadmines, the main base of the Defias Brotherhood. So far, though, his group would be getting no-where fast.

"I said, I won't heal! I trained to be in the thick of righteous battle, not on the sidelines!" Yohwyn had always been fiercely protective of his right to battle. The mage, a short gnome with disproportional power, sighed and looked around. Moonbrook was a sorry sight, especially in the fading light, and the hushed groups of fighters discussing battle tactics made the situation so much more morose. Alteon hated this kind of atmosphere; where tension hung palpably think in the air. He had traveled from Teldrassil to get away from oppression, not magnify it.

"Alteon, will you heal?" Yohwyn asked, his red face glaring at the mage, Gadge.

"Fine," he agreed. "But we need to take this more seriously. It's a big operation from the king himself, and an opportunity to eradicate these rogues."

"It's settled then," Yohwyn smiled broadly. "Where did Nightly go?"

"Here!" The human abandoned his stealth, to reveal he was standing over Gadge. "Are we ready?"

"We don't have the recommended five for a group, but we can take it regardless." Yohwyn explained, hefting his hammer from its holster on his back. "We all ready? I think the other groups are moving out too."

The rest of the group murmured the affirmative, and they set off into Moonbrook barn. They were the second-last group, who would be heading straight to the portion of the mine that had been overtaken my undead miners, so reports told. Alteon wasn't worried: he had trained from Mathreygl Bearwalker himself, and was confident in his abilities. Yohwyn he was not too sure about.

They entered the mines and soon enough the cries and sounds of battle was all they could hear. When they got near to the dispatch point, Alteon felt the back of his neck tingle.

"Heal any of them and I kill you, druid." A soft voice whispered in his ear. It was female and sultry, but he could not sense the presence. The woman was stealthed.

Yohwyn rushed at a zombie, hammer flailing and holy magic radiating from him. Powerful bolts of frost hit another squarely, by they kept coming. Alteon was powerless to help them and Nightly had vanished. Then, he saw a flicker behind Yohwyn and in a flash of blades, and he thunked down on the mine floor. Gadge looked around wildly, but met the same fate, at what Alteon now knew was Nightly's dagger.

"Good work," The female voice behind him said as she left stealth. "Go claim your reward. And please put your bandana back on how. The sight of your bristly chin is annoying me,"

Alteon was stunned. He knew Nightly, not well, but they had been on several conquests together before. To think he had been working for the Defias all that time sickened him.

"Yes, Ma'am," he saluted to her and pulled a square of red material from his back pocket. He quickly put it on and saluted once more before slipping into stealth and disappearing.

"You're the lucky one," The lady purred as magic gathered in her hands. "One of you idiots from each group is coming with us. We've just perfected a new machine that we'd like to… test." She sniggered. "You adventurers sure are stupid. There's one rogue in every one of your little groups, and you don't even check their backgrounds? Go and have a drink with them and get them to remove their gloves? Gosh, the standard has really slipped since I wasn't a Defias."

With the creeping sensation of a knockout spell, Alteon toppled to the floor, cursing his luck.

-

"Lesson one, class," Marzon the Silent Blade said as he addressed the group of about ten new Defias who were going into stealth combat. "In this room, you will be impeccably behaved, or hell shall follow. You will come in clean, and remove your boots and place them on the rack. There is then a basin, to wash your hands with. Then, you will sit at your desks- don't touch anything- and wait for me to begin. Okay?"

"Yes, sir," Conyeri felt like a schoolgirl. It was the most surreal thing she had ever experienced, being in a cavern a mile below Westfall and having to take her boots off before learning to kill people for profit.

"Right then. Lesson 2- you're all dead. Lay on the floor. But don't scuff anything. Backs on the ground."

They complied with his odd request. "None of you even thought to stealth, or to check that I am, indeed, Marzon. I could have been an impostor waiting to slice your pretty little heads off."

"But sir, that contradicts lesson 1-"

The boy got a throwing knife in his thigh. He screamed and tossed around.

Marzon grimaced. "If you get blood on my floor, I'll use more than a blunt throwing knife!" he warned, and the boy stopped his writing and carefully picked the knife out. It had only sunk about a centimeter deep, so the wound was not that bad. He grabbed the red bandana from his back pocket and bandaged the wound with it. "You really want to wear that on your face now? Wool doesn't grow on trees, boy."

He seemed to want to say something, but refrained. He undid the bandana, which wasn't yet bloodstained, and looked around for something to stop the weeping wound from earning him Marzon's wrath.

Conyeri had a handkerchief in her pocket, she remembered. She took it out and offered it to him. He snatched it up and tied it, not even thanking her.

"Good, good, my little ones. Now you may take a seat." They all sat down and he mimed shooting them. "You're all dead, again. Checking the seat is one of the most _duh_ things to do."

They stood up hastily. Conyeri was not sure if she liked Marzon yet. "Right, check the seats. Then the ceiling, then under the desks. Who doubts I am the real Marzon?"

Not surprisingly, everyone raised his or her hands. "Then how are you going to discern that I am, in fact, who I appear to be?"

"A codeword?" A girl suggested. She looked only a year older than Conyeri, but her eyes were cold and tired. "We could set one up in advance next time, and change it at the end of every lesson."

Marzon kissed his fist. "Finally, someone with a corpuscle of intelligence. That would work, but what if the fake Marzon overheard it at the end of class?"

"We could say one thing and actually mean the opposite of it," a man in his thirties said, suddenly very shy as the class turned their attention to him.

The assassin clapped his hands together and smiled. "Good, good. Now, take a seat once you've checked it and dusted yourself off."

They obliged, nervous to see if he was going to 'kill' them again, but he turned back to his desk, a heavily polished an lacquered one of darkened wood. "You're here because you can't brawl to save your lives. And frankly, that's a good thing- it means that you aren't the front-line fodder of the Defias. You will work behind the lines, on the lines, in between the lines and sometimes parallel to them. You will be a force to be reckoned with, the scourge of Stormwind."

He sighed and surveyed them. "Right now, however, you are the biggest bunch of pansies this side of Theramore. And I say that because the pansies the other side of Theramore are those Syndicate prats, who can't even stealth. It makes me cringe to see them walk about openly in their off-orange bandanas." He gave a dramatic shiver. "Anyway, your training is split into three stages: Basic Theory, which is held in this beautiful cave," he motioned to the dripping, slimy, mossy growths. "Basic Combat, which is held in the main cavern, and Stealth Skills, which is held outside."  
"How much theory is involved in stabbing someone?" the boy with the leg wound wondered aloud.

Marzon's face darkened. "More than I reckon will fit into your pea-sized brain."

He shut up for the remainder of the introduction.

"I expect to be referred to as Sir at all times." He continued. "And rest assured that I will find out if you call me anything else, any time."

"Your training is interspersed with assignments. These give you field experience to help you apply the skills you hopefully will learn in the next year or so- providing you don't get any mud on my classroom floor." He smiled at them in a condescending way. "Your first lesson: how to properly tie and take care of your bandana."

-

Alteon woke up in a dark, frightening place. There was no light filtering into it, and the smell of terror and human waste was all too prevalent. His head hurt to high heaven, and his body didn't seem to want to obey him. His sensitive ears could hear moaning, sobbing and muffled attempts and suffocating. Wherever he was, it must be hell.

As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he found he was in a cave. The ceiling was low, so that only gnomes or dwarves could stand at full height. There were twenty people with him: a couple he recognized from the gathered groups and their foolish attempt to break the Defias brotherhood. The cave had only a single exit and entrance, a passageway barely thin enough for a man to squeeze through, which was warded by an intricate magical barrier that was giving out a low luminescence, providing the cave a gloomy glow that was barely noticeable.

"The elf's awake."

"Elf awake."

"Talk to him."

"Can't he break the barrier?"

Alteon heard the whispers of recognition of his consciousness that rippled through the assembled crowd. He realized, with shame, that they were all naked, and that he wasn't. His armour was gone, but he had somehow kept his trousers and boots on.

"Elf," a stout dwarf with a matted beard and watery eyes addressed him. "Can ye break the barrier? We have ta get out o' here."

"What's going on?" he asked, sensing the tension within the group. "Where are we?"

"Keep yer voice down," the dwarf whispered. "If they hear yeh, yeh're gone first,"

"They?" Alteon was puzzled for a moment. "The Defias. We're held captive. But why can none of you do the barrier yourselves?"

"The mage comes every mornin' and saps our power. But yeh've only jus' come in, an' she won't come fer a while. The others that came with yeh're warriors and paladins, and they can't do magic fer peanuts."

Alteon nodded slowly. He concentrated on the weave of spells of the barrier and tried to discern the pattern, but he was more a feral druid, and this kind of magic was weak in him. He did manage to grasp a few loose and frayed ends of the weave and tug on them, seeing if they would weaken the magic. They held fast, but footsteps quickly came scuffling down the thin corridor. A human woman appeared, dressed in plain clothes.

"Tsk, tsk. Another one trying to break my barrier. Who was it this time?"

"The elf!" the dwarf pointed at him. "He did it. I treid ta stop him, but he kept goin'."

Alteon couldn't believe it. The dwarf had set him up to keep himself out of whatever laid beyond the thin corridor. He felt wrath growing in his blood and nearly struck out at the filthy liar, but felt a creeping cold wash over him. His earthen magic was tugged from him viciously- the mana in his body was depleted entirely. He couldn't do anything.

"I guess you're next then, little druid," the woman unsheathed a sword and ushered him down the corridor with it. They passed through the magical weave as if it wasn't there. "And nobody likes a tattle-tale, dwarf."

They continued past where the ceiling heightened and the passage became larger. Alteon could feel the blade pressing against the small of his back and a sense of terror falling over him. Why him? Why had he ever traveled far to his accursed land of 'opportunity', away from his home?

"Your name, young druid?" the woman asked.

The blade broke his skin and he grimaced in pain. "Alteon Moonwhisper."

"Pretty. You'll be Alt from now on." Alteon didn't like it when people shortened his name. It made him sound lower in stature. "What a lucky one you are."

"What are you going to do with me?" he asked, shaking. They were headed along a mine shaft-like tunnel now. A few goblins stopped to salute to the woman, but she walked on nonchalantly. They came into a huge cavern, the roof so high that Alteon couldn't see it. It was filled with benches and machines, along with humans and goblins in their hundreds. They were all tinkering away at their own little projects: he saw bombs, grappling hooks and other dangerous items strewn about things that he had no idea as to the use of.

They were greeted by a huge, dark green goblin with a twinkle of madness in his eye. "Miss Du'Paige,"

"Cap'n." they saluted each other, but the Captain was obviously the slightly lower rank. "Meet Alt. He's in for Project Tinker."

"Good, good, good," he rubbed sweaty hands together. "Gilnid had just finished a perfect batch of thorium bolts that we think would work better. They'd stop the physical deterioration the pervious ones have experienced."

"Excellent. He's a strong one, but don't let his mana regenerate at all. Druids need very little to shapeshift, and if he got into cat form he'd be stealthed out of here and we'd miss a great opportunity."

"Yes, Ma'am," the Captain said, a group of Defias gathering around him. They acted as a guard for Alteon as he was again led through the cavern to a smaller workshop in a chamber off the main one.

Though he was mortified, Alteon couldn't stop. He soiled himself in terror.

In the chamber, there were five workbenches. People occupied four. 3 humans and a draenei. They were bolted to the tables, each in different stages of being fitted with a manner of metal. The Defias were creating metal men. They howled in terror and pain as solutions were injected, skin was soldered to metal and live wires were poked through holes in their flesh. A fifth metal-man, who was not at his table, stood in the corner, eyes peering at his kind.

There was a difference to him, Alteon noticed. He was calm, controlled and fully sentient. His long black hair fell over his face, where a glowing red socket had replaced one eye. He locked eyes with Alteon ad smiled underneath the Red bandana he wore. Twin cutlasses hung at his hips and thick groups of wiring down his arms and legs. His chest was arranged in slats of metal that bonded with the flesh of his neck. His right hand, however was the one part of his body that remained un-enhanced: a faded tattoo of a cog.

Alteon was forced, struggling, onto the fifth table. He cried out in desperation, his body spasming wildly. He didn't want this. He was a child of nature, of timeless beauty. The wilderness beckoned to him. This metal, this artificial prison, would kill him. Not his body, maybe, but his druidic spirit.

He was bolted down onto the table, and the head goblin came and inserted a needle into his arm. It glowed a marvelously gold, and Alteon knew from his forays into Alchemy that is was an Elixir of Invulnerability. The toll on the used was huge, but it granted practical immortality for a short amount of time. Very expensive to make too, requiring-

He cried out as his clothes were ripped off him. Drills and a box of greenish bolts were placed by the table.

"Here goes the first try with the Thorium, boys. Be sure to watch carefully, you'll have to do a lot of these soon enough…"

-

Conyeri was so engrossed in the parchment that Marzon had given her on basic stealth that she didn't hear Marisa enter. That was, until her hot breath tickled the back of her neck.

"No, please. I have lessons tomorrow, and everyone can hear. Don't do this to me again,"

That was what she wanted to say.

Instead, a quick silencing spell flowed between her lips and it caught in her throat before she had even started. Limbs started their slow and controlling exploration of her body. Her clothes began to undo themselves. She shut her eyes and tried not to cry. She almost managed it. Almost.

Hot tears streaked down her face as her body moved by itself. She felt nothing, not even the slightest touch. She was numb, after all of it. She didn't care. In the barn in Duskwood, she had been emotional about her coming decision and that inevitability of her internment amongst the ranks of the evildoers in Azeroth. But now she was here, and actually making friends and learning things, she didn't want this, this thing that was stopping her trying to accept her choice.

"I condemned a druid to a life of torment and eventual painful death today," the Monster breathed. "The look in his eyes was amazing."

The Monster's sick hobbies were no mystery to Conyeri now. She had an intimate knowledge of her day-to-day workings, portrayed in the worst light humanly possible. The Monster gripped her by her brown hair and kissed her. It was horrible, the force of lust that barreled down upon her, like a siege engine against a tiny country village.

"You're so pretty, Cony," the Monster said, detaching herself to set astride the helpless girl. "Why won't you kiss me back?"

Then Conyeri saw it. A flicker behind her eyes, a fleeting spirit of lust. The Monster looked confused, like she actually was puzzled at why Conyeri wouldn't kiss her. Her brow furrowed and she looked around for a moment before she returned to her senses. Curious, Conyeri switched her senses from physical to magical, and soon saw the cause of Marisa's confusion. Her body was overloaded with magic- druidic, demonic, arcane, holy, anything you could think of. She was like a roaring Midsummer's bonfire of magic, leaking heat and magic everywhere. Every square inch of her body was coated with magic, enveloped by magic, consumed wholly by magic. Her eyes, in this sense, were glowing orbs of incandescent fire that burned into her own. She was totally and utterly overwhelmed with magic that she couldn't contain or control.

"Kiss me," she purred, her magic lighting up a fiery and lustful red. "What do you have to lose?"

Conyeri thought about that. What did she have to lose? What tatters of pride she clung on to, for certain, and a good deal of her perceptions about herself. She thought Marisa was beautiful, yes, but was not sexually attracted to her. She then thought about everything that had happened. She didn't know Marisa's story, and it occurred to Conyeri that she shouldn't judge her without knowing if there were reason that she acted this way.

"50 adventurers tried to raid the Deadmines today," she said, twirling a lock of Conyeri's hair in his fingers. "We killed all but ten, and we captured them."

She closed her eyes and an expression of pure pleasure washed over her. "I drained them all of magic. It was exhilarating." She put her hand on Conyeri's forehead and pushed some of the magic into her. It was like a flood of pure power, which suffused her limbs and made her breath catch in her throat. She gawped helplessly and the overload of magic that her body wasn't trained to take rendered her helpless. Suddenly, everything was amazing. She saw in a million shades of colour that coruscated off objects and even the air. Her body thrashed under Marisa's firm grip and the addict watched with mirth as Conyeri became intoxicated by the magic.

"This was the Blood Elves' downfall, you know. Magic." She pushed more from herself into Conyeri, making her scream out, but no sound came under the silencing spell. "If there was ever a vice to have, I reckon this you be the best. After lust."

Conyeri whimpered.

"If I wanted to," the Monster reared up within Marisa again, the creature created by her lust for magical and carnal pleasure, casting her face in an angry purple hue of dim spellfire. "I could control you. I could make you do whatever I want! I could _make _you kiss me! Make you do thing that would have your skin crawling! I could do it!"

Conyeri dimly registered that the whole cavern would be listening to this. Tomorrow, she would be even more hated than she was yesterday. However, she was honestly so caught up in everything that was happening that she didn't care. The numbness of her body threatened to fade as the Monster screamed at her, her face contorted in pure hatred.

All she could do was lye there and wish for the morning to come swiftly.

When she woke up, it was not in her own bed, but sprawled on the floor of Marisa's room. The heavy weight of the woman made it hard for her to breathe properly, but she daren't move. Switching her senses back to normal, she looked around. The cubby was suddenly so… small, she decided. Marisa stirred, her eyes fluttering open.

She groaned and pulled herself off the floor. The stiff way she moved in was a note that her body was reacting to the vast amounts of magic that were using it as a host. "You have lessons."

Conyeri nodded and shimmied out from where she was still too close to Marisa for comfort. She couldn't decide: was this Marisa, or the Monster? Or were they the same thing. Her head hurt thinking about it, so she pushed it unceremoniously from her mind and decided to concentrate on hating whatever Marisa/the Monster was. She pulled herself up and started redressing, snatching the paper on Stealth Marzon had given her, thinking he'd be angry that she hadn't practiced overnight, and doubting that her excuse would be valid.

She left the cubby in a hurry, heading to Geylan's half-dressed. It was either very early or very late, so nobody was around to hassle her. She pulled the drapes aside and found him in a state of half-consciousness, digging about groggily in the pile of clothes that he had tidied up for her yesterday. He acknowledged her with a lopsided grin.

"Mornin'" he yawned and pulled a shirt from the pile. "Though I guess you haven't had much sleep."

"Nor has the whole cavern, I'd wager," she stretched out some of her stiff joints.

"How can you be so cool about it?" he wondered, trying not to watch as she pulled her shirt on over her camisole. "She's a monster, do that to you."

"You don't know the half of it," he smiled meekly and gave the helpless feeling of dread that seemed to cling to her the cold shoulder. "It isn't that hard. She's just the Monster."

He clothes himself and they walked out of his room together. Marzon's chamber was about a five-minute walk of the main one, and Conyeri was grateful for Geylan's presence a second time: he had shown her the way the first time she had gone, but she still had no idea where she was going. After a life of open fields, all the rocks looked the same.

They arrived at Marzon's 'classroom' and took their boots off as expected. Conyeri washed her hands, by Geylan didn't bother.

"Wash your hands, Little Red Riding Shaw," came Marzon's gruff voice from nowhere. "Or I'll splay your girlfriend into a gazillion pieces."

Geylan disappeared and Conyeri was left wondering what on earth was going on until the air next to her erupted with the clash of blades. Geylan twirled gracefully under dual slashes from Marzon, whose hands were equally fast. They parried and twisted for about a minute before Marzon forced Geylan to a wall. "Wash your hands, sonny,"

Geylan pulled his knee up and hit Marzon in the soft spot. He tottered backwards in agony. "Cheap shot! Foul! Pull him up, ref!"

"Isn't that the first rule in you book, Marzy?" he smirked and sheathed his dagger. "The cheap shots are actually the most satisfying?"

"Meh," He hopped up and dusted himself off. "Look how dirty you got me! I'll make her pay for it," he pointed at Conyeri.

"Don't, Marzy, she's had a hard enough time as it is."

"Ahh," he grinned. "I did indeed hear Marisa's dulcet tones in the main cavern last night," he looked at her quizzically. "Can't tell what she sees in you, but I'd be careful if I were you. Bit of an unstable one."

"You're telling me?" she asked incredulously, before quickly adding "sir,"

"She speaks!" he said. "You were a bit of a quiet one yesterday, so I didn't really get an impression. Why're you here?" he scratched his head. "Abusive household? Debt? Pissed off your father who happens to be one of the most powerful men in Stormwind?"

"Um," she didn't quite know how to phrase it. She hadn't really wanted to make it public knowledge, especially not to Geylan, who she wanted to give no reason to distrust her. "I didn't really have a choice."

"Does anyone who ends up in this shithole?" Marzon asked rhetorically, bending down to tie up one of the laces on his boots. "C'mon, you can tell Uncle Marzy."

"I didn't have a choice," she repeated, her confidence growing. "The Defias pillaged my house and killed my parents. The Mon- Miss Du'Paige was taken with me… she didn't really let me choose."

Marzon nodded him head sympathetically. "You know the smart one in your class yesterday? She was the same a while ago- except not because of Marisa. She fell to the corrupt Alliance judicial system."

"What do you mean?" Conyeri asked.

"She was under guardianship of her grandparents after her parents died many years ago. In the end, as all humans do, they both died, and she was then too young to own the property or savings they had. She was taken to the orphanage in cathedral square, where she lived a pretty crap life until she was eighteen. Then, when she asked for the inheritance, she found that the city had already taken it for themselves. They sent her away, with nothing. She resorted to stealing bread from a small-time baker in Stormwind, and because she didn't have anyone to defend her, she wasn't sentenced with the normal petty theft. She got treason against the kingdom- how stealing bread is treason, I'll never fathom- and she was sentenced to death."

"Eighteen, homeless, family less and sentenced to death for a crime you didn't commit," Geylan remarked with a low whistle. "Didn't have much going for her, did she?"

"Since they didn't want her down in the Stockades, she had one night before beach by firing squad. Fist helped her to escape, since he often gets sent into holding for brawling, and she came here. And she's never been happier."

"What was her name again?" Geylan asked Marzon.

"Uh, something-ella."

"Useful." Geylan remarked sourly. "Learn their names, Marzy, it does wonders for self-esteem."

Conyeri was now beginning to see what it was that the Defias fought against. If something-ella's story wasn't exaggerated, then something really was wrong with Stormwind. She wondered if her family had ever been wronged, or if not, how many others had. Was there actually a great amount of suffering behind the shiny city of prosperity that so many people flocked to to make their living?

She daren't think on that.

"Anyway, I can hear your other little ones on their way," Geylan tipped an imaginary hat to Marzon. "See you in the Crimson later?"

"Sure thing," Marzon agreed and gave him a hefty slap on the back- that would probably knock the wind out of Conyeri, but only made Geylan grimace a bit. Geylan wished her goodbye and left, just in time to be saluted to by Conyeri's fellow trainees. They all had their stealth papers and their bandanas, and were chatting amiably until they saw Conyeri and Marzon. They saluted him and took their boots off, washed their hands and walked past him warily. Something-ella broke the silence.

"Anything to say to us, Sir?" she quipped, taking her mousy hair and putting it up in a casual ponytail.

"Oh, right…" his face screwed up. "It was Ditch, right?"

They all froze, alarmed. Their code word had been Ditch, but he was supposed to say hill or mountain, the opposite. Conyeri figured it out quicker than most that he was testing them to see how they'd react if he actually wasn't Marzon, since she trusted Geylan's ability to know when his good friend was not actually himself.

Conyeri was first to draw her dagger. Her proper one, not the wooden ones they sparred with. She slid it out of its sheath what she hope was silently, and felt the familiar weight in her hand. It was made of light metal, and was not dissimilar to the trowel she had used daily back on the farm, so se had no problems with handling it. Something-ella saw and did the same. They all caught on in the end and Marzon was faced with a room full of people with pointy objects.

Of course, he stealthed. Conyeri smirked, now in her element. Her strangely acute senses, which she had had from birth, were easily tuned into different things. She had used them for disturbances in the air the night her parents were killed: and last night, she had switched over into the magical spectrum, which had let her senses take over her eyes. IT wasn't an ability that she liked to brag about, but she did wonder where it came from. She heightened her hearing (at a cost to touch, taste and smell) and could here the vibrations off the cave floor where Marzon was stepping. He was sneaking up behind something-ella, daggers drawn. Making a lunge for him, she barreled into the unsuspecting rogue (for he had been certain that none of the trainees could ever notice his stealth) and took him down. His stealth broke and she quickly decided to play along with the whole 'imposter' exercise and brought her dagger to his throat.

"Mountain, mountain! Geez, get off me, crazy kid." She relinquished her hold. The class looked at her with curiosity. "How the hell'd you see my stealth?"

"Um," Conyeri wondered why she was suddenly so shy, especially when she had had no problems talking to adults or publicly back home. It could be the fact that everyone in here could stab her at any given moment. "I have good senses."

"Good? More like epic!" He started at her incredulously. "I shan't pull any funny business while you're around then," he gave a low whistle and walked back over to his desk, sheathing his daggers.

"Right, you all checked out the stealth paper I gave you last night?" there was a general murmur of assent. Conyeri wanted to say yes, but honestly she had only gotten halfway through. She wondered if Marzon would really make an exception for her, since he did know what was going on. "Good, good. We'll have a little recap before I test you all," he shot Conyeri a look that seemed to say that she was indebted to him.

He went through the basics of stealth on the board them paired them up to practice. Conyeri was placed with something-ella, who introduced herself as Isobella tersely and just glared daggers at everyone else in the room for the whole session. Though she still couldn't disappear completely, like the boy with the knife wound was nearing being able to, she could make herself go see-through enough to blend in. It took a great deal of concentration and she still wasn't very good at keeping it up while moving. It was more exhausting than she'd thought, and soon trainees were becoming more and more visible. Isobella was trying, but she was even worse than Conyeri (which gave her a small amount of hope) and she kept mumbling swearwords to herself. Marzon walked around the room eyeing people and shouting at them if they got slack. It was he who gave Conyeri her breakthrough.

"You've got excellent senses, right? Well, think of stealth as stopping other people's senses sensing you."

She had to sit down a while and calculate that, but she devised a plan. She began blotting herself out to every sense, first the easy ones like taste and smell, then to sight, which took a huge amount of what was becoming her energy, the more she trained. It was nearly impossible to stop herself from making noise: there were just too many things about her body and clothes that caused vibrations in the air. She supposed it might be easier to stealth naked, but didn't like her chances if she lost concentration.

The scariest thing was when she had got the hang of stealth to a degree, she decided to try and blot herself out to touch. At first, it was as if she were submerged in a very cold bath, then an icy ocean and finally frozen in a block of ice. Every move, every twitch, became a mammoth achievement, but she found that she could place the tips of her fingers through the desk. She was careful not to let Marzon see her experimentation, and stopped shortly after, confused at this new ability.

Lunchtime soon came, and Conyeri was excited. She hadn't eaten anywhere but Marisa's rooms before, and the refectory was a whole new experience. She followed Isobella down the winding passages until the smell of food hung thick in the air. She breathed in the scent and opened her smell senses to it. The way that she was training now had opened up thousands of new uses of her senses, some of which were immensely useful and some that scared her.

Geylan was at a table with Dash when she went in. She ran up to them, but saw Isobella waiting, unsure of where to sit. "Do you want to sit with us?" Conyeri asked.

"No," Her brow furrowed. She the immediately strode over to where some of Conyeri's class were sitting.

"Rude little 'un," Dash scowled at her. "Ye were bein' real nice ta her as well."

"Leave it. She's got some demons to deal with," Geylan explained, digging into a stew. "You can go up to the hatch and grab some stew. Cookie has really outdone himself this time."

"Cookie?"

"Our master chef. He and his teams of murlocs cook for us, since Stoutmantle and his militia started hunting them, calling them 'pests'. They did nothing wrong except living in Westfall, and they were here before any humans."

"Mm," Conyeri agreed absentmindedly as she stood back up. "Food…"

The two others laughed as she went up for her stew. She was a little apprehensive to take the dish from a murloc, but swallowed her prejudices as she had been doing more and more often. The server smiled at her (if she had correctly read the murloc's face- it could have been a grimace of pain) as she received the piping hot stew. It was fascinating to see inside the kitchen- murlocs waddled everywhere, mixing vats of stew, rolling dough, stoking ovens and all sorts of things. They all looked happy, like they were really into the cooking. They spoke in their guttural language, but when it was not a battle cry as Conyeri had heard on the shores of Stone Cairn Lake, it was quirky and interesting.

She brought the bowl back to the table and sat down with her two friends, glad that she had something to be here for other than obligation. If she could, of course, she'd go free, but now she was beginning to wonder if she would turn the Defias in. They helped people, even if it was into a life of crime. And even then, the line between definite evil and good was beginning to blur at the edges.

The only thing she dreaded were the nights, where she'd have to face Marisa, or the Monster, or both. The woman worried and repulsed here, but she felt a little pity since finding out that she was obsessed with magic, something she'd thought humans were not inclined to.

Was magic making Marisa into the Monster? It was not particularly far-fetched- magic was known to change people in malevolent ways.

She wondered all these things, unsure of her life to come.

-

So there we are. Chapter 2. 10k, again, which I'm going to take as minimum length for my chapters. It took me a while to get into this.

I hope you liked the Defias' new project. Certainly a little more adventurous than a giant ship to blast SW. Poor Alteon. He's my 34 druid and I love him so, but the chance was too good to pass up.

Please review, or alert, or whatever. Thank you to the 3 people who reviewed chapter 1 (as of this chapter going to post).

~Emmy


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Alteon is now my 40 druid, but meh. But the time of this chapter going to post, he'll probs be my 50 druid. XD. I'm thinking that the Training Arc will be about 60k, then I may or may not be going to get into some of the missions Conyeri may or may not be going on.

The Brotherhood

Chapter III

The token prickling feeling running down Conyeri's neck and spine alerted her to the incoming danger. She was camped in the foothills of Westfall, 'protecting' a tent full of supplies that were her and her teammates food for the next week. As soon as everyone in the class could stealth satisfactorily, Marzon had begun their outdoor Stealth Skills test. Conyeri's team was her, Isobella, Harrman (the boy who got the throwing knife in his leg the first day) and two other thugs from the other unit. Her leader was Geylan, much to her relief.

She opened her hearing to the sound of plodding footsteps on the loose Westfall soil, coming from the southeast. After alerting her teammates, they formed their crescent and stealthed, leaving it looking as though the two thugs were the only ones guarding the fully stocked tent.

Two paladins, both of middle age and stocky build, crested the hill. They saw the camp and charged, holy magic lengthening their stride. With the increased stealth detection that most humans had racially, Conyeri would have thought they'd been smart enough to check. That was paladins for you.

"Die, Defias scum!" one shouted as he brought his hammer up to crush a thug. Isobella moved around to behind him and in one swift movement he fell to the floor, having been brutally maimed. His wounds began knitting up with magic, but one of the thugs stunned him by kicking his head in and he remained still after that. The other paladin had knocked the other thug out and was making an even match with Harrman, until Geylan slipped a kris between his armour plates and he, too buckled. Harrman finished him by lopping off his head with his long, tapered scimitar.

Conyeri didn't like the sight of dead bodies, but she was willing to make an exception this time for the sake of getting good marks on her test. She didn't want to have to do the whole thing again with the next group of recruits. They began chopping the bodies into small bits and feeding them into the bonfire that had to remain burning all week. The lack of trees in Westfall made this difficult, with teams having to constantly go further and further to get firewood. They probably should have started from furthest away and then gotten closer.

"Paladins…" Geylan muttered, wiping his sword clean on one's tabard. "Just when you think you've seen all the stupidity in Azeroth."

"Mm," Harrman agreed. "Dez, you want this chain? It's a helluva lot better then that rusty thing you've got on." He pointed to the first paladin's fine chain hauberk. Dez, the conscious thug, agreed and put it on. On the other side of the small camp, Isobella was tending to the other thug. She looked peaceful, like she was enjoying the healing a great deal.

"Alright, looks like that'll be the lot for tonight," Geylan said to them. "We should start cooking dinner."

Everyone agreed heartily to that and goretusk meat began to roast by the bonfire. It was nice to have the heat and light, but it did make them sitting ducks to anyone for miles around.

"Isobella, Conyeri, you're on first guard shift tonight," Harrman told them as he stretched out his muscles. "Wake me and Dez up about 2, and not a minute before."

Conyeri sighed and imagined the sleep she wouldn't be getting tonight, plus she had to spend it with Isobella, who had stayed with her ethos of ignoring Conyeri where possible and being standoffish when opportunity presents itself.

"Okay," Isobella said, her eyes blank now, as the other thug had been tended to. She hadn't got much sleep (none of them had- the cawing of fleshripper vultures and the baying of gnolls carried on for much of the night) and was even more irritable that usual.

Geylan came over and sat with her, just near enough to the fire to be warm and far enough to feel outside of the circle.

"You holding up?" he asked, untying his bandana, which was strictly prohibited when in direct contact with the rest of the world, but he was the best leader to get.

"Are you asking me that out of genuine care, or are you still grading me?" she grinned.

"A little of both," he admitted, transfixed by the flickering flames. "It's a lot to take in in so little time, Conyeri."

She shrugged. "Everything seems a thousand years ago, to be honest."

"You shouldn't just forget everything that happened," Geylan frowned as his gaze dragged itself from the first to her. "It's bad to bottle things up."

"I think they're in a keg, not a bottle," she sighed and ran her hands through her hair. "I feel twenty years older."

He laughed, inching nearer the fire as the night's chill began to set it. "Imagine how I feel. And you can take your bandana off, you know I don't care."

"Marz- Sir could be anywhere, stealthed." He raised an eyebrow. "Fine, fine, I'll take it off."

"But you'd know, miss super-senses," he insisted, grinning from ear to ear. "You know I looked up your surname at our registry."

"Why?" she asked him, wondering if he was secretly a stalker.

"No offense, but you don't hear DeHayersae a lot around here. It's a really old surname."

"I don't really know, to be honest," she shrugged, while Dez turned the meat over and over on the spit in a hypnotic way. "Never really asked."

"There are two places it comes from," he began. "The first is way back to the elves, but a bastardized translation. Hayersae is Old Common for the small, downy feathers that would molt from baby owls as they grew up, and De, though we would think it 'of' actually used to be 'it' or 'the thing' which was what the first humans called the moon. It comes from the Feathermoon line, of which the most notable is Shandris, the general of the sentinels."

"I'm descended from the night elves?" she asked incredulously, a little overwhelmed that Geylan had looked into this so much.

"It would explain your senses," he replies matter-of-factly. "Do you want to know the other place it could come from?"

"Do I?"

"I asked first." He smiled and gave her a competitive stare. She kept it for about a minute before breaking out in giggles.

"I give, I give. Go on."

"Thank you," he rolled his eyes. "Hayersae could also refer to the unfavoured offspring of Jan'Alai, a god of the forest trolls. They were not a dragon-like as their father, so he called them 'Wingless ones' because most couldn't fly, coming back to the Hayersae, for the little wings."

Conyeri was very impressed. "I think I'd prefer to come from elves than a troll god," she admitted. "How did you find the time for all this research?"

"Rhank'Zor, since we taught him to read, has ravaged the libraries of everywhere within a hundred mile radius. He loves books, however weird that is. I was talking with him about it and he mentioned the Elven connection, and I later found the troll one when I was digging around for a tome on the poisonous plants of Westfall, of which there are surprisingly many." His eyes lit up, now in his element. "Did you know that if you crush the thorns of swiftthistle with a mixture of briarthorn and peacebloom stalks, it makes a more potent poison then I've been using for years?"

"No, but I'll stay away from the peacebloom if that's the case," she made a worried face. Dez and Harrman came to sit with them, bringing some bread and ale. They munched and talked about little things, and Conyeri almost smiled at how disturbingly normal it was. They'd just killed two paladins.

"Speaking of wankers, I saw them two paladins we done earlier. They bloody rez'd 'emselves- guess we underestima'ed their skill." Dez said in his thick Lakeshire accent. It amazed Conyeri at the sheer power of magic that she had only ever skirted over before. The notion that one could come back to life after their body had been burned was mind-boggling.

"I never understood magic like that- that holy shit. Turns my head," Harrman, brusque as usual. "But it had something to do with energies and immortal souls."

"We're not gonna get rezzed then," Dez added, glugging his ale. "Reckon my immor'al soul's not too 'appy wiv me."

"I can't help but echo that sentiment," Geylan interjected. "I suppose a druid could rez one of us, though. That had nothing to do with immortal souls."

"In fact, littl' Elfie could," Dez gestured to Conyeri. "I 'erd yure conversation erlier."

"It's pure speculation," Geylan told him, after swallowing a mouthful of bread. "Not fact."

" 'Still cool, thow." He insisted. "Me, I think I'm descended from these ogre types."

"Don't say that, Dez," Harrman insisted, giving him a pat on the back. "You're as honest a man as you could hope to find in a brotherhood of thieves."

"Mighty good at consolin', ain't ya?" Dez raised a bushy eyebrow. "S'okay thow- I know I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed. Suits me- all this stealth you lot do jus' confuses me to no end."

That set Conyeri and Harrman talking about their classes. They had been making fine progress, their stealth having improved drastically. Conyeri was taking extra classes in swordplay from Geylan, and Marisa had been away for ages since the night she had overdosed on magic. What she was up to, Conyeri didn't bear thinking about, but all the same it was nice having a routine. She was quickly learning that the Defias weren't the thugs and pickpockets she had perceived them as- they were in big business.

With a jolt, she recognized the heavy feeling in her stomach at the thought of the Defias. It wasn't hate, not even a grudge. She still had her doubts: hearing that the paladins had survived had relieved her greatly, but now she had so many personal ties there, and nothing but an old friend of the family outside, who wasn't sure if she was innocent or guilty. Geylan, for certain, a better friend than any on other farms. Dash, her surrogate father, and even Marzon, her mentor. Marisa could be left out of her thoughts if she tried hard enough, and even then her hatred had simmered into dislike and a bit of pity.

"You want some" Geylan asked her, offering a steaming chunk of goretusk on a piece of the paladin's frayed shirt.

"Sure." She took it gingerly and placed it down to cool for a minute. "Gosh, goretusk, what a rare treat. Never have I had such a fine dish before."

"If ya don't like it, don't eat it!" the other thug, Jack, told her from where he was roasting the inner part of the goretusk that was still rare. Conyeri took her piece of goretusk possessively.

"No, no. I'm fine." She said, and tucked in to the tender meat, eating, as her father would have said, like a savage. A pang of grief hit her when she thought of that, but she decided that it was no use running from the thought of her parents' death- she should honour their memory, not mourn their passing.

"After the test, me and the lads are 'avin a party down at the Crimson," Dez said, referring to The Crimson Crook, which was the Defias pub/inn/brothel/all-purpose leisure destination. "Invite only, for some top food and… service, if ya catch my meaning. We don' usually ask the sneakies, but you after bein' holed up wit yous for the week, I reckon you're mighty fine. I'd like to ask ya ta come."

"Score!" Harrman did a victory arm-pump. "Parties, here I come. Chicks, mead, food- what's their not to like?"

Conyeri smiled at his enthusiasm. "Were we going to get straight back to work after the test, or do you want to go?" she asked Geylan, who had a mouth full of meat that he had to swallow before answering.

"Course, course, what's one night of merriment? You've got all year to master swordplay, and you're progressing exceptionally fast. No need to rush you."

Conyeri felt a blush tickle her cheeks at the appraisal. "What night is it on?"

"Ah, the fourteenth, straight after we finish."

"Is it really already October?" Geylan asked, his soft brown eyes wide. "Time flies when you're having fun, I guess."

"You can tell by the way I freeze by ass off every night," Harrman shivered, moving closer to the fire. The sun had now fully set and the stars were out. "Probably about time to get some sleep."

The rest of the camp was beginning to pack up too, so Conyeri waved goodbye to Geylan and the rest. Isobella was sharpening her dagger when Conyeri found her and they exchanged icy looks and curt nods. Conyeri didn't quite understand why the girl hated her so- what had she done?

She took her post on one of the protective raised knolls that surrounded the back of their camp, while Isobella guarded the front, near the bonfire. The night was cold and moaning, the nearby dangers suddenly more real. It wasn't just the test any more: this was a full-on assignment with dangers involved, on both sides. Those paladins may have not resurrected themselves, in another instance, and what would become of their friends, their families? They would have been killed for good, gone from Azeroth and never to return.

Except they would return, Conyeri thought darkly, thinking about the Defias' 'project'. She was not clued in to their higher tinkering, but knew of the undead. The Defias had been manipulating and perfecting the plague first used by the Apothecaries of the Undercity. It had first escaped into the outer Deadmines, infecting the miners that were there and turning them into grotesque ghouls that hungered for flesh of any kind. They did, however, have a great deal of potential- they weren't directly linked in any way to the Defias (imagine trying to get a bloodthirsty ghoul to wear a bandana) and they could wipe out great areas in a short period of time.

The downside was that even when the infestation had died down after the initial plague outbreak, working near them was dangerous, as the plague liked to spread and infect the normal Defias. These became the leaders of the ghouls, keeping some of their wits after their horrific transformations. Conyeri shuddered from both the cold and the thought of any of her friends ending up as ghouls.

There were thousands of other projects, some huge and some individual hobbies, but Conyeri wasn't privy to much of that. Marisa, however, was, and something big was going down at the moment, which was taking up a lot of her time, for which she was thankful to a level she had not previously thought possible. The lack of her personal Monster made Defias life, dare she say, fun? Her qualms were still definitely there, but now she was comfortable. Not as comfortable as she had been with her parents, but she was certainly not as bored as previously, but there were still grim realities of the 'job' that she wasn't comfortable at all with.

The fire burned a slow coil of woody smoke up into the tar-drenched sky interspersed with tiny stars, and besides the distant cries on gnolls and the omnipresent background noise of Westfall in general, it was peaceful. Conyeri sat down and pulled her knees into her chest and rocked gently back and forward like her mother was rocking her to sleep.

"_Don't cry, don't cry,_

_Little one, rest and lye,_

_To sleep, to sleep,_

_Little one, grow strong and reap,_

_Sing peace, sing love,_

_Sing heaven above,_

_Sing, my little one,_

_Sing for me."_

She sang softly under her breath, filling herself with thoughts of her parents. Their presence, or rather the presence of their memory, was bittersweet, but gave her a bit of hope that maybe she was doing the right thing. Her parents would hate what she'd done, joining the people who killed them, but she thought they would appreciate how she had found out that people were not just generic killers behind bandanas, but real and had stories of their own.

They'd hate Marisa though, more than Conyeri did, even. She smiled at the thought of them meeting her, the oral beating they would give. She nearly started crying, but kept herself strong, not wanting her sobs to reach Isobella down by the fire.

Someone was stealthed behind her, she suddenly realized as her thoughts cleared from her sentimental haze. She carefully slipped a tiny dagger from her sleeve and faked quietly sobbing. The presence was not particularly powerful- she was surprised that she hadn't felt it a lot earlier.

She pushed herself up on her free hand and did a half-turn on her knee, grabbing her assailant's ankle and pulling them down. They landed with a thud on the floor and Conyeri straddled them, her dagger to their throat.

She didn't recognize the man, but he wore the red bandana of the Defias. She flipped his hand over and saw the tattoo of the cog, but kept him down.

"Would you like a drink?" She asked threateningly, her voice loud enough, she hoped, to attract Isobella's attention.

"I'll have a cutthroat's brew," he replied, completing the safe-phrase. "I'm Nightly. Marzon sent me."

Isobella came up behind her and regarded Nightly. "Oh, Night, you should have said you were coming!" She glared at Conyeri. "Get off him."

She obliged and dusted herself off. "You two know each other?"

"Iz is my little sister," he replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He was tall, with cropped black hair and two gouged scars on his forehead. "Not by blood, but I ran the safehouse she stayed at in Stormwind while awaiting trial."

"You don't have to tell her anything," Isobella told him, grabbing his sleeve and trying to tug him away.

"I have to report to the watchers of duty, so that means both of you," he pulled off her grip. "Marzon wants to warn you that there are another load of adventurers ransacking camps. He said he'd rather you were unprepared, but that he didn't want to lose his favourite sparring partner."

"Can't you stay?" Isobella asked him pleadingly, eyes going all goggly. It was odd to hear her talk so much, let alone acknowledge someone as her superior, or someone she deferred to.

"I have to warn the other camps," he sighed. "But I'll take you to our party when the test is over,"

"You're going to the party?" Conyeri asked him.

"I'm going to _our_ party," he said threateningly. "Not that mass orgy of drinking shoddy beer and gambling money away that the thugs call their party. We have a proper party for the more discerning crowd."

"The Defias have a class divide? Shocker." She said smarmily, disliking this Nightly fellow more every second she spoke to him. "What happened to hating the upper class, nobles cheated you, blah blah?"

He gave her a threatening look. "Know your place, grunt. I'm your senior officer!"

"Senior is right," she retorted. Isobella glared daggers at her. She received a (probably deserved) backhand that left her face stinging.

"Just 'cause you're Miss Du'Paige's little pet project, doesn't mean you're any better than anyone else," he said under his breath. "And if you think that the Defias are all about _brotherhood_, you're sadly mistaken. It's every man for himself."

He waved off Isobella and drew energy into a Sprint, and was over the next hill in the time it took Conyeri's watering eyes to blink. She wondered about his statement- that the Defias weren't united. Of course they were, and she'd seen it first hand. Probably just the babbling of a pissed-off guy who had to work the night shift instead of going down the pub.

"Why did you talk that way to him!"? Isobella angrily snarled at her, pushing her towards a tree. "He's my big brother!"

"He's an asshole," she corrected her, now not at all in the mood for a confrontation, but still agitated from her dream of a perfect Defias being shattered. There were bound to be a few rotten apples in the barrel, she knew, but she'd hopes she'd never bite into one.

Her eyes opened wide and she regarded Conyeri with a seething hatred beyond that from a rivalry or a general dislike of each other. She pulled her short, curved sword from its scabbard and kept her other hand that was pinning Conyeri to the tree, her face livid.

"Whoa, a few harsh words don't constitute sticking me with that thing!" she panicked. "You just seem to hate me for no reason!"

She faltered slightly, but still gripped her sword way too tightly for Conyeri's comfort. "You're stupid, insolent, spoiled, a friend-snatcher and a bitch. That sound enough?"

"Uh, explain?" she looked at Isobella dubiously.

"Since you got here, Geylan has talked to me twice, and yet you're with him whenever I look. Dash looks at you like a daughter, even Miss Du'Paige likes you! And Sir! Everyone likes you and they've forgotten me!"

That came out quickly, Conyeri mused, but kept a straight face. Isobella was nearly crying. "That must suck." She said quietly.

"Damn right it does." She sighed and let go of Conyeri's aching shoulder."

"Why didn't you sit with us when I asked you?" Conyeri asked, remembering the first lunch she had had outside Marisa's rooms.

She just huffed and shook her head, sheathing her sword. The girl turned on her heel and jogged back down to the camp. "Uh, Isobella? There are hoards of angry fighters on the way, remember?"

She nodded tersely, her face again a picture of hatred. The others were roused, much to their dismay, and began kitting up. Yawning and stretching were the favoured activities, but soon the camp hushed and those trained to do so slipped into stealth, ready to face the attackers.

Conyeri sensed them first, and the phrase 'impact kobold', that she now knew was code for how long until an attack struck, rippled around the camp. Dez and Jack gripped their heavy swords tightly and tried to look unassuming, which was hard when you're seven foot and built like a tauren. There were a small group, no bigger than five, but they were heavily armed- a much different level altogether than the paladins from earlier.

They came over the hill and Conyeri's heart leapt into her throat. She recognized Salma Saldean's daughter, about her age, in oversized leather armour, and Riell, a member of the people's militia who had come to their farm many times to report on the activity of the various dangers within Westfall. She felt her dagger slip in her hand. How could she even raise a blade to these people? Sarah, who had been one of her best friends, whose mother had made the best goretsuk liver pie in Westfall?

The stealthed Defias began to maneuver around the back of the group, but Conyeri stayed paralyzed at the top of the hillock. Dez and Jack pretended to have only just noticed them and shouted in alarm, brandishing their swords and charging with practiced speed to confront the two heavily plated melee fighters. Riell came after that, slashing and twisting under Jack's huge blows easily. At the back, Sarah Saldean was shooting off arrows wonkily as a small, tame coyote bounded towards Jack. There was a man Conyeri did not recognize at the back, his hands spewing holy magic at the rest of the group, healing their tiredness and the wounds that were being inflicted.

The 'sneakies' closed in behind the group, Geylan taking the priest out with a flurry of whirring blows that sliced his back clean open. Harrman lopped one of the warrior's heads clean off his shoulders, but the other one caught the jist that they were being ambushed and twirled around Isobella's stab, kicking Dez in the face and sending him sprawling as Riell closed in. Conyeri panicked, unsure of what to do. Geylan shot her a look from where he was running to confront Sarah that made up her mind for her.

She jumped down from the ledge smoothly and concentrated on the warrior she didn't know, who was swiftly parrying Isobella's quick jabs and Jack's heavier swings. She barreled into him, her stealth fading, but he was put off balance and went down in an overpowering flood of blades. The other warrior, who had been on his way to help Sarah and left Riell to deal with Dez, met a similar fate, the numbers of Defias too great for him to effectively use his training.

Dez looked a sight: he was bleeding profusely and sprawled on the ground where Riell had left him. She had made a fatal mistake, though, not killing him cleanly. Conyeri's attention instinctively flitted to Isobella, who looked at the dying man with a steely gaze. She had known, ever since training, that the girl didn't like killing as much as she did healing. She was caught in limbo between energy and mana, so that she wasn't the most effective stealthed warrior, but she wasn't allowed to heal. Her eyes grew wide as white magic splayed from her fingertips and into Dez's body, his wounds knitting together and his blood pumping once again. She looked fearful, like this power was not something she felt she should have, but she shakily concentrated anyway. Dez, as surprised as Conyeri, felt his chest of the wounds and sat up, only slightly flinching. Isobella offered a hand and he wordlessly took it and got to his feet, flexing his hands. Words would come later.

Conyeri looked to where Sarah was barely parrying Geylan's sharp blows and her stomach lurched. She ran over to the main fight, which was now centered on the two people she had least wanted to engage, and stood there. Riell expertly took Isobella down, a heavy shield bash knocking her unconscious. She moved back, so she was protecting Sarah from anyone other than Geylan, whom she turned and attacked. Swords connected in masterful symmetry and they weaved in and out of each other for a minute while Dez and Harrman tried to get through, but Riell, once she had forced closer contact with him, kneed him between his legs and he crumpled. Dez shouted in anger and swung his sword, but she parried the blow with her shield and undercut him, slicing through the sinews of his calf. He flinched but tried to collapse onto her, hoping to crush the smaller mass, but Riell sidestepped easily and set her sights for Harrman.

He went for a simple strategy of wearing her down by force, and it worked to a certain extent, until she was forced into an unbalanced stance, but she used her abilities and channeled her rage into a huge kinetic force that threw him off, but not before he'd managed to slice her sword hand off with his dagger.

They both fell to the ground, and Conyeri found herself facing two people she couldn't kill.

"One left," Riell assured Sarah, dropping her shield and picking up her sword with her good hand. Sarah, scared witless by what was probably her fist intense fight, nodded and they both turned on Conyeri, who found herself in a dilemma. She could reveal who she was to them, and try and tell her story. Or she could kill them.

Sarah cocked her head o the side. "Wait a minute, Riell. She's not attacking."

"A ploy to get us to hesitate," the older woman explained, her face strained and pasty as blood continued to pour from her stump of a hand.

"No, no. Look at her." The farmer's daughter insisted, walking forwards. "Conyeri?"

She froze as her blood turned to ice. "Conyeri DeHayersae? Harrigan's daughter?" Riell asked, peering through the gloom.

"Yes, it's her!" Sarah looked horrified and glad at the same him. "Cony! Cony, what's happened?" she ran forwards a little before pausing. Conyeri then realized that at some point she'd forgotten to tie her bandana back on.

"Uh," she managed, her mind racing. "Hey."

"What are you doing here? Did you come to get rid of the Defias with us too? I thought your parents got-" she paused. "Why didn't you come to us? You look terrible, like you've hardly slept! Have you been eating right? There's a rewards out for your recovery! Oh, by the light…" She pulled Conyeri into a tight hug, her hands clinging to her tunic. "We all thought you were dead, Cony. Or worse."

Riell eyes her suspiciously. "Don't. I saw her take down Gerrik. She's with them."

Sarah broke the hug and looked at her in bewilderment. "She's Conyeri, Riell, not some money-grabbing self-interested thug!"

"No, Sarah, get away now!" She commanded, and Sarah shied away under her gaze, coming back to the Scout's side. "I'm apprehending you on behalf of the Militia of Westfall."

Conyeri raised an eyebrow. She wouldn't kill them- she physically couldn't- but she could find it in herself to knock them unconscious. Especially considering Sarah and her had fought over boys many a time, and Sarah always won. She put her hands up in a gesture of surrender as she saw Riell come towards her, blade outstretched, and Sarah with a small binding spell enchanted to a metal rod. A figure came up behind them silently, and Conyeri's eyes widened as the outline of Marzon became clearer, just as Riell's mouth started gushing blood. She fell to the sandy soil without a sound and the assassin turned to Sarah and deftly kicked her down. She had the wind knocked out of her and a couple of ribs broken, by Conyeri's estimate.

"Go on, then." He urged her, gesturing to Sarah. "Finish the job."

Goretusk rose back up Conyeri's throat as Marzon's eyes glittered in the distant bonfire's image, filled with expectance. She realized that this was her personal test, not the weeklong camp or the sparring or the poison quizzes or anything else. This was her final judgment, her rite of passage, and her initiation. This was what she had to do to stay in the Defias, to open her eyes to the severe nature of the work she would have to undertake. To understand that it would not always be nameless and faceless people's lives at the end of her blade, but people she knew, people that she held emotional ties to. She was trapped between a rock and a hard place, both of which whispered different things to her. To kill or to be killed? To exist, or to live? To let her spirit, who she once was, die, or to let her body be condemned to the damning flames, who had few qualms with her so far?

If she did this, it would be a mortal sin against the Light. Not that the two paladins didn't count, but they were resurrected. They were trained and protected to give their lives for the Light. Sarah was an innocent, gleaming white in the world of blacks and murky greys Conyeri felt herself drawing closer to.

"Conyeri?" Marzon asked, his boot pressing harder. "Are you there?"

"Yes." She said, her voice sounding faraway. "I'm here."

"What are you waiting for?" he asked her, looking down at Sarah's teary eyes. "_She _attacked _you_."

Conyeri slowly drew her sword and Sarah's face changed from terror to a strange pity. She spoke in a voice crushed by Marzon's weight.

"Cony," she said, turning her head to look at her. "You… really are… one of them?"

She nodded sadly, looking at the blade. It was sharp, and pointy. It could kill someone. She wavered there, standing on that spot, crumbling. Sarah had big, blue eyes, brimming with tears. Sarah took this in, her face changing from one thing to the next.

"Did you… kill them?"

"No." Conyeri said, bringing the tip of her sword to Sarah's neck.

"That's… okay, then. If you… didn't do that… then you're not… a… monster…" she huffed, her body struggling to get enough air.

"But I'm about to…" she said, looking from Sarah to Marzon to her sword and back. "To…"

"It's… for the best…" she said, her face oddly placid. "I never… wanted to… kill. I didn't have… the choice… I… under…stand…your…position…" Marzon pressed harder on her chest and she began to choke, unable to get air.

"Now or never, sweetheart," he said, looking at her seriously. Conyeri looked at Sarah's fluttering eyes once before gently slipping her blade in and cutting her windpipe. She felt horrible, like she had just killed a part of herself. And Sarah had said she understood, like she wasn't afraid of dying. How was that possible? Sarah was eighteen. She wouldn't want to die. Had she seen things so horrible since Conyeri had seen her last that she'd lost her will to live? Were the Defias that forceful in taking over Westfall? What had she done?

"Pass. You cut it a little close, though." Marzon remarked, kicking the body aside. "Downing someone you knew is always hard. It doesn't get easier."

"Are you trying to console me, now!?" she cried incredulously as Geylan began stirring from his painful experience. "She… you… I…" She couldn't get a full sentence out. "I just…"

"You just became part of the Defias, for real," Geylan said, wincing as he stood up. His eyes were sad, like a mother watching her children leave home. "Not a great feeling."

"It's supposed to be?" she asked irritably, chucking her sword down in disgust. "I can't do it. It's not right."

"Didn't stop you a second ago." Marzon said, dusting himself down. "And besides, someone will probably resurrect her sometime, if they can find a paladin who'll ever set foot in Westfall again."

"That's not the point!" she exclaimed. "The point is that I did it in the first place. The point is that I'm a monster!"

Marzon took her by the scruff of her neck and pulled her really close to his face. He was in his mid-thirties, but his eyes spoke volumes of hurt, pain and sacrifice. "She let you off, you know. She told you herself! She said that you weren't. Are you not happy with that when it came from the very girl's mouth!"

"She was dying! What else was she supposed to say?"

"That she'd come back and kill you, traitor, cruel, sadistic excuse for a human being, etc?" Geylan interjected, looking around at the unconscious Defias. "That's what I got."

"I almost wish she had," Conyeri sighed, tears welling up in her brown eyes. "It would have been easier knowing that she didn't forgive me for killing her."

"You win some, you lose some," Marzon said. "I'm in no mood to tank about morals with you at the moment. That's on the syllabus later on. We need to fortify the camp and get everyone back on his or her feet. You were unlucky to get hit by them, the other camps were treated to less experienced groups."

Conyeri sat in her tent and moped for the rest of the night. Dez and Harrman agreed to take watch, as they had been bandaged and refreshed with some little spells that the Defias Conjurors kept in their metal batons in this case. The metal acted as a holder for the spell, but was weak enough that the body's own attraction could pull the force from it with the right channeling. She almost admired the idea and then remembered she was moping, so she just cried and thought about her parents.

Geylan came in shortly before dawn, having done his watch.

"You okay?" he asked, and then realized what a stupid question that was. "Stupid question."

"Yeh," she replied monosyllabically, her knees tight to her chest in her comfort position, bundled up in the quilt.

"I know it sucks," he sat down next to her, pulling his boots and gloves off. "But… it's inevitable."

"I should have just picked being Marisa's sex slave," Conyeri mumbled. "I wouldn't have to kill then."

"But would that be any better?" he asked seriously, looking at her with sincere eyes. "You hated that she forced you when you first got here, then it stopped. Now you have a new thing to abhor about your new life, but following the pattern, it should soon go?"

"But it's part of the job," she said. "It doesn't stop."

"You thought Marisa wouldn't," he pointed out.

"But she'll come back."

"And maybe then she'll have a new someone to force."

"Or she won't," Conyeri said, shifting towards Geylan's warmth. "And I'll have two things to 'abhor'."

"Pessimism is that way," he let her lean on his shoulder, looking so frail and childlike compared to the young woman he had seen her as. "It wont get you anywhere."

"I'll not get let down, though," she smiled weakly, tears drying on her cheeks and leaving salty paths.

"But you'll never be pleased," he said, tossing his gloves and boots to the corner of the tent. "Conyeri… you have it hard, and we all know it. But you have to make the most of what you _do _have, of you'll just end up killing yourself."

"What do I have? A rapist psychopath, a classmate who hates my guts, a tattoo that means I'll never walk free again…"

"An overly pessimistic view of life…" he continued in her tone of voice. "You have me," he smiled, reddening imperceptibly. "You have Dash and Harrman and Dez, you have something to work at and something to aim for."

"Aim? For what? Betterment of the Defias? I don't think so." She said, still locked in the moping mindset.

"However small a contribution you make to anything, nobody is irrelevant," he explained. "Look at, say… a raiding party. There will be up to forty people in it, but the whole thing couldn't go on if you're missing just one priest, or one druid."

"Excellent analogy," Harrman said as he stooped to look inside the tent. "But you'd feel even more excellent if you got some sleep."

Geylan raised an eyebrow but complied, shuffling under his covers. Conyeri missed his warmth and the wisdom he was imparting. "You can change the Defias for the better, if you give it your all," he whispered. "It may take five years, it may take ten. You may even have to give your life for it… but whatever you leave behind will be important, because it's _you_ that's leaving it."

He rolled over and slept.

-

"There's two paladins here t-to see you, sir, a Sir Ferrin of Theramore and a Sir Kinelly of S-southshore." P-P said to Baros, his stutter on full blast in the presence of the irate man.

"Paladins?" Baros asked. "Sirs? Let them in immediately, and be courteous, boy." Paladins, especially those with the title of Sir, inferring that they held a large amount of sway over their respective cities, had not visited Baros since before the reconstruction of Stormwind. He hastily tidied his desk and washed his face, slipping one of his formal jackets on.

"Lord Alexton," Sir Ferrin greeted him, easily distinguished by the anchor-emblem tabard that was stretched over his heavy breastplate. They both looked dirty, tired and as though they were in a great rush. Kinelly was nursing a large head wound. "We come with news from Westfall."

"Ah, excellent," he said, sizing them up. They must be the first sons of their respective families, because neither was old enough to have children, so Baros guessed they weren't quite as experienced as their titles and armour suggested. "Do sit down."

"No time, I'm afraid," Ferrin explained, scratching his bearded chin. Baros admired the bristly growth for a minute, wondering why his own could never seem to look as manly as this paladin's did, but then set his mind back onto more pressing matters. "We're going to go and rally some more to our cause and storm all the Defias camps in Westfall."

"U-uhm," P-P interrupted. "I wouldn't d-do that."

"Why not, boy?" Baros asked, angry that the boy had interrupted his important talk with the two righteous protectors.

"Well, you wouldn't listen... sir… but the Militia sent another f-forty people to deal with them. All d-dead, sir, and resurrecting them… the priest said… would be d-difficult."

Ferrin's eyes widened. "So, the Militia _did _take action. We implored them to send a bigger force, but Gyran Stoutmantle refused. He must have changed his mind."

"There is something amiss," Kinelly spoke up, his face troubled. "The Defias are too well organized, too knowledgeable of our movements and attacks. There is only a select group involved in the higher workings of this operation, yes? Then someone must be crooked."

Baros shook his head. "There are only seven men who know what we are about to do before we do it, and they are all completely clean."

"No offence, Lord Alexton," Ferrin said apologetically. "But liars often are the most earnest, to contradict myself."

"I suggest you have all of your advisors monitored and checked out again," Kinelly advised, looking at the grandfather clock on Baros' wall. "It is late, and we have still too report to the Chapel of Light for evening prayers."

"I wish you good luck, then," Baros bid them goodbye, before collapsing in the chair of his parlour. "Some brandy, boy, quickly."

P-P scuttled into the cellar as his master bade him and pulled out a bottle of finest dark, pouring it into the delicate glass with trembling fingers. He had always been a weak boy.

Baros downed the brandy in one and demanded another, the liquor burning his throat but bringing him clarity. He had already reported to the king once, and then he only had the deaths of scores of young fighters to report, as well as the increasing encroachment of mechanical golems, pillaging, etc. The search for Conyeri was equally frustrating: signs of a scuffle at her home but no other evidence.

A weak knock roused him from his brooding and he groaned, not in the mood for any more visitors. P-P opened it and a woman stepped in, clean and fresh smelling, wearing a simple dress. Her left hand, however, lit up the whole room. It was constructed of light and holy magic, the coruscated up her arm and lit up the dimming room.

"Scout Riell of the People's Militia," she addressed Baros with a bow. "Though not until I learn to use this thing," she gestured to her hand, that stayed locked in an outstretched position.

"Lord Alexton, Stormwind city-"

"I know who you are," she cut him off, helping herself to a seat. "And I'm going to be horribly frank with you."

"O-okay," he said hesitantly as P-P shut the door. "Do go on."

"The people's Militia, enlisting several people from surrounding farmsteads, launched an attack on the Defias encampments. They knew we were coming and not a single person survived the battle. I was lucky to be resurrected by the Spirit, and given this hand back. But a young girl, fresh from her farm, who came with me, was not. She was killed in cold blood."

"I offer my greatest condolences," He said, trying to keep the ire from his voice. The last thing he wanted to hear now was sob stories.

"She was killed by Conyeri DeHayersae." Riell stated with venom in her words. "I saw it in my dying seconds."

Baros shook himself out of his disinterested state. "What did you say?" he asked, not sure he had heard correctly. Riell re-iterated herself.

"There was a reward out for the recovery of Conyeri DeHayersae, whose parents were killed by the Defias, in Sentinel Hill. She's with them. She killed one of her friends."

"That's treason and murder, but I can get her a more gruesome execution if she killed her own parents," his eyes were sparkling, the brain behind doing rapid calculations as to what he could do now with this huge chunk of information. Inform the king immediately, for a start, and-

"She said she didn't, before she murdered Sarah," Riell said. "But why trust words from her mouth?"

"Of course." He smiled, not the least bit sad. He'd always known that murder and treason ran in Harrigan's family, but now had the evidence to support it.

"My five-hundred gold?" she asked off-hand.

"Oh, yes," he pulled out a scroll and filled her name in before signing it in a flourish. "Take this to the city bank and they'll see you rewarded properly."

"Thank you, Lord Alexton. You understand the plight we face, especially when children do such criminal things to their own parents… it is a sad reflection on our youth."

"Indeed." He echoed, wringing his hands together. "I wish you well with your second chance, Miss Riell."

She bowed and exited; leaving Baros's head to spin at how fast thing had suddenly developed. One minute, he was being told that everyone was dying, the next that the girl he was using was indeed embroiled with the Defias, something that gave him a wonderful excuse to get rid of Harrigan DeHayersae's legacy once and for all. He had always outshined Baros, having designed the whole trade quarter of Stormwind almost single-handedly, whilst his own plans were rejected. Now, he would prove that he knew Harrigan was a crook all along. Though he had voiced these concerns to many of his peers in the remaining stonemasons, they had hailed Harrigan as pulling off the only successful deal with the Defias, and laughed off Baros's claims of his continued involvement with the Defias as jealousy. And now look at where they were. Baros was the city architect, and Harrigan was dead.

P-P came back after about twenty minutes to light candles.

"Don't bother, I'm going to have my first good night in weeks," he smiled. "You can go home now."

"Goodnight, S-sir," P-P bowed and left, after shutting the house up and extinguishing the main lamp. He scampered out of the house and heard the heavy bolt slide across the door.

Thus he began his long, long walk home.

-

It was deathly quiet, unusually, around the central cavern below Sentinel Hill. Men were not standing around talking or sparring, and nor were women. The cubbies were empty and the classrooms deserted. There were two places to be on the fourteenth of October, and in your room was not one of them.

The majority of the Defias who operated from Camp RUTN, which housed trainees and a chunk of the ordinary forces, was in the Crimson Crook, having a merry time. The other, less used tavern, the Lady Westfall, held about fifty others. Their activities were starkly different.

In the Crimson, there was more noise than Conyeri had thought imaginable for such a covert organization. They were right under Sentinel Hill, too. She sat at a wooden bench with Geylan to one side and Dez to the other, both of whom nursed foaming mugs of beer. There was a game of dice going on at their table, and Geylan had lost ten gold already. The whole room reverberated with laughter and a general fuzzy feeling of belonging and living life, one that Conyeri really wasn't in the mood to join in with. After they'd finished their camp, they had been whisked back to Camp for a small report and debrief from Marzon before a 2-day holiday. The first night of this was affectionately referred to by the Defias as 'the carnal night', though most just called it the carnie.

Mead was drunk, bets were made, girls were bought and music was strung. You really noticed that the Defias weren't just thugs or crooks: Conyeri, had she seen Dez across the street or in a crowd, would not have picked him as a brilliant guitarist, but here he was, resting his aching fingers after three encores from the crowd. Harrman was busy dancing with one of the girls, the two very involved in each other. There was no rule that forbade sex within the Defias ranks, but there was a huge gap in the male to female ration that had to be bridged somehow. This was where the girls came in. They were there as a result of trying to join the Defias but not making the athletic cut. They held certain rights, and the guard of four thugs on duty to make sure men didn't overstep their boundaries enforced these. They could be bought, but often they just found a guy they liked and went with it. Marriages had happened through this before.

Conyeri was trying to be happy, she really was, but the weight of her moral transformation was pulling her back to the ground every time she tried to fly. Geylan had noticed it too, and he was trying to keep her mind occupied with anything else.

"A beer?" He asked as one of the attractive maids came around with a fresh tray of mugs.

"I'm underage," she said, looking at the drink that she had little experience with.

"No, you're not," Geylan smiled at her. "I looked you up in the registry, remember? No hiding things from me, birthday girl."

She opened her mouth to speak before she remembered that it actually was her birthday today. She was seventeen. The thought of that was dwarfed by the thought of actually forgetting her own date of birth. It must have been such a crazy month for _that_ to happen.

"Thanks," she told him quietly. "But you don't have to make a big deal-"

Geylan, now on his fifth mug of beer, stood up and raised it in a toast. "To Conyeri! Seventeen today…hic!"

Conyeri's face reddened as every patron of the Crimson crook drank a toast to her. Dez finished winning his game of dice.

"You shoulda told us! We wud 'ave dun something!" he swept the gold into his coin purse, which was going to have to be upgraded to a sack soon if he kept winning.

"Didn't want to make a fuss," she explained, leaning her elbows on the table. "And besides, you have your own fun to be having tonight, and I'm just not in the mood for anything,"

"Aww, don't shay that!" Harrman came waltzing over to their table after the song ended. "Carnie ish for becoming happy! After a long, hard shlog!" he motioned to the girl on his arm.

"No thanks," she declined.

"You are _not_ going to sit there sulking through carnie. It would be a sin to let you do so!" Geylan said, tugging her by the arm from the table. "This is the first carnie where I've really had fun. The other party is so tight-ass…"

Dez chipped in. "Thas why we don' usually get the sneakies to come to this one. Dead borin', theys are."

"Meh," Geylan brushed off the accusation. "If you don't like mead I'm sure we can find some alcohol you do." He pulled her over to the bar. The girl behind it was flirting with a thug, but she spied them coming over and excused herself.

"Haven't seen you down here in ages, Shaw!" she said, leaning on the bar. "Who's the birthday girl, exactly? You know stuff doesn't reach down here fast."

"This is Conyeri." He introduced her. "Cony, this is Rosea. She's the assistant barkeeper."

"Nice to meet you," Conyeri wasn't sure how to greet her. Instead, she was brought into a hug over the thin bar.

"Friend of Shaw's is a friend of mine," she smiled. "What can I getcha?"

"Cony doesn't like mead," he explained, scratching his shaggy blonde head. "Got something more girly for her?"

"Hmm," she gave Cony a once over. "Some… bourbon? I know it's not exactly girly, but she doesn't look the sweet type."

"You can tell what kind of alcohol people like by what they look like?" Conyeri asked incredulously.

Rosea laughed, throwing her head back. "No, just what'll get you drunk the quickest. You're light but have some curves, means you'll probably need something with a little kick to get you going."

"I don't want to get drunk," She replied, looking on helplessly as the assistant barkeeper poured her the bourbon.

"Nonsense." She replied. "First, it's your seventeenth birthday. Second, it's carnie. Third, it's just plain fun."

Conyeri took the drink gingerly. "Down it," Geylan advised her. She looked at the liquid dubiously, and was not going to drink it until Geylan grabbed her arm and did it for her. The alcohol burned her throat as it washed down and she choked. Before, she had drunk weak mead, but nothing as potent as this. It stung her throat and she put the glass down.

"That is horrible!" she protested as Rosea began pouring another.

"You won't say that after another two or three," She grinned and placed another glass in front of the table. "Whatever you're moping about, forget it. However big or horrid it is, spend one night off shouldering your burden."

"But-" Geylan gave her the next shot. And the next after that. And soon she stopped arguing and started just talking and laughing at the bar with the two of them. She learned that Geylan had known Rosea before the Defias, that she was the maid to one of the influential rogues who lived in SI:7. When Geylan had been forced out, Rosea faced problems for having been closely associated with him and couldn't find work in the city. She started working around Elwyn and finally the Defias pillaged the inn she was employed by, and she joined without hesitation, keen to keep up her line of work and meet her old friend.

"That really is all there's to tell," she said, before a customer whistled for her over the other end. "Late night crowd incoming, I'll be busy."

"S'fine." Geylan replied, and Conyeri followed him back to the table where Dez was now refereeing a fraudulent game of cards. They slipped back into their places, Conyeri now all too keen to take the tankard from a passing maid. She found the fuzziness of alcohol soothing, such as she could focus on the here and now and not her crappy life.

Dez was called up shortly after the cards finished to play on the guitar again. It was a slow and sensitive strummed melody, and Geylan said he recognized it and leapt off to dance with Rosea. They sauntered across the inn in a comical fashion, waltzing other people out of the way.

Someone sat beside Conyeri. She turned and saw a girl, about her age, wearing an emerald green tunic. "You not up for that kind of thing, then?"

Taken aback by the sudden approach but drunk and open to suggestion, Conyeri shrugged. "Never really danced much."

She raised her eyebrows. "Straight to the point, are you?"

"Whaddya mean?" the drunken girl asked, draining her tankard.

"Well," the girl said, shifting her weight so that she leaned into Conyeri. "Some people just want to go straight for the flag and not worry about the enemy,"

"I dunno what you…" the girl placed a hand of Conyeri's shoulder sensually. "Oh."

She mounted the drunken girl and smirked at her. Conyeri panicked, shoving her roughly off. This brought back too many memories of Marisa hat she was trying to keep at bay. "No."

"You could have just said so, geez" she mumbled and rubbed her stomach where Conyeri had shoved her. "You never been to one of these before, have you?"

"No," Conyeri slumped back into the padded seat. "Do you… do people…"

"Usually," she answered. "But meh. If you want a boy, there are a few around."

"No, no. I don't want anyone."

"Suit yourself." She walked off to find someone else to offer her services to, and Conyeri was left by herself again.

She sunk into the chair and sighed. It wasn't that she wasn't interested in doing things like that; it was just that the Monster in Marisa had forever ruined the experience. It was a shame, she thought, that she couldn't enjoy everything about carnie, but when that rent girl had tried to make a move on her, all she could see was Marisa and her blazing eyes. All she could feel was the hatred and the magic and the intense violence of her first night. She nearly cried, but stopped herself.

"Cony, you okay?" Geylan hopped next to her. The song had finished and he had caught sight of her sitting alone. "You get attacked by one of the rent girls?"

"Yeh…" she admitted. "You?"

"Nah. They don't bother me much. You're new and easy pickings."

"Do they all… I mean, everyone here seems kind of lax about who they have sex with."

"You mean girls and boys and every combination?" he asked. "Not sure. I think people are just so thankful that they are enjoying themselves in the middle of a spiral of violence and death that they just became accustomed to not caring." He smiled, the added. "But we don't go at it like rabbits. Its nights like carnie that we just let go. It makes for one giant hangover in the morning."

"I'm sure," she said. "Things seem to be quietening down now. I think I might go back and sleep all this off…"

"I won't stop you." She said, chuckling and Dez and Jack, who were mock waltzing through the crowd. "Oh, and since Marisa is going to be gone for some time, I set up a mattress for you in my cubby. There's no space to swing a cat, but if you'd prefer not to sleep all by yourself…"

"Thanks," she was genuinely thankful for his foresight. "Don't wake me."

"And risk the wrath?" he laughed. "You have a nice lie-in tomorrow,"

"For the first time in ever," she mused, thinking of her early morning sparring and Marzon's lessons.

She waved him goodnight and left the warm light of the Crimson, coming out into a cavern with a small pond. Lichens were growing around it, and some fish had been put there, though they weren't looking at all happy about it. She walked up and through the winding maze of tunnels until she came to the one she thought connected with the training cavern. It did not.

The passageway was big enough for about 2 men to walk shoulder to shoulder, but one huge man took up the end completely. Conyeri squinted. Not a man, but an elf, standing seven feet tall and muscular. And shiny. What was that about? She took a step into the corridor, but the elf sentry picked her presence up and came bounding over faster than she thought humanly possible.

She gasped at the elf's body. His chest was arranged in jagged slats of steel plate that fused with the flesh of his neck. His arms were augmented with lines and bunches of multicoloured cables that stuck out of his body and sent electric currents whizzing down metal plates that were arranged to armour him better. His left eye was a mire of wires and a shine metal globe, and cables ate up the whole side of his face. Goblin engineering could be easily seen, the hallmarks of their assembly techniques evident.

"You're a bit lost," He said in a hoarse voice, like something was constantly grinding in his throat. "God back and take the second left, not the first."

"T-thank you," she shied away from the metal man. He frowned, an odd look of disappointment in his eyes. She kept her eyes on his as she maneuvered out of the passageway and took the correct route, stopping only once to catch her breath as she ran as fast as she could away from the hideous metal man.

Just when she'd become comfortable to a degree with the Defias, they had taken it up a whole notch on the inhumane scale.

-

A/N: That was a beast to write. Stop/Start FTL. Meh. Sorry for the loooooong wait .

Alt is my 53 Druid, Silvermoon EU server. Drop me a line in-game!


	4. Chapter 4

Hello everyone, hope this got out to you as soon as you hoped.

There's a fair deal of work gone into some parts, so I hope you'll pick them out.

Alt, 57… though he could be 60, I've had other stuff to do. Please review!

The Brotherhood

Chapter 4

Alt groaned in pain as the goblin tightened one of the bolts on his back. The metal man he had seen the first time he'd come here was back, in exactly the same position as before. His arms were crossed and he was looking out into the room with mild interest. There was no screaming now- the woman in plain clothes hadn't come back with any new people for a while. When she did come in, it was to inspect him, usually. She always seemed very busy, tailed by goblins and humans asking this or that.

This was the second time Alt had seen her come in today, quite a record. She was wearing loose and wrinkled casual clothes and her hair was visibly un-brushed. The metal-man changed his vision from the visual spectrum to the magical spectrum via the implant in his eye, and confirmed his suspicions. She was coming down from a magical high, meaning she had just drained the prisoners pending experimentation of their power for the day. It must be morning, then, he surmised, mildly agitated that he did not have a functioning body clock any more. That was as far as Alt could manage, though, mild agitation. Mild disappointment. Mild euphoria. There was nothing intense about anything anymore, not the soothing whispers of the grassy breeze or the richness of the earth. Not the power of the tiny, beating heart of the mouse or the majestic oaken keepers of Darnassus. Just the faint feelings that passed his emotional block and the nagging commands of the goblins.

"Marisa," the metal-man in the corner addressed her. Alt now knew her name, so he filed it away for future use. "I trust you enjoyed yourself last night?"

"Very much so," she agreed, straightening her shirt. "The look of dismay on her face was most satisfying."

"She did not expect you back?" he asked, raising and eyebrow with difficulty. "Then I have surely been working you too hard. I have almost nothing to do but watch this fascinating process." He gestured to where the small, greasy goblin was now fiddling with some cables in Alt's arm.

"The progress of Project Tinker has been astonishing," she agreed, pulling a crumpled piece of parchment from a pocket. "But I wasn't sure exactly of the number that we decided to commission in the end. As you know, Gold Coast Quarry has been increasingly under siege by Alexton's operation, so getting supplies here fast has been a problem."

"Can we not take them from the Jangolode mine?" he asked. "Though I suppose security in Elwyn had trebled since Jerod's Landing was taken."

"Correct," she sighed and nursed her head in the way that Alt had come to associate with drinking and getting high on any substance. "Project Kick the Bucket has slowed down a bit, purely because we have too many and nowhere to deploy them. On your word, we target Goldshire."

"No, don't. Goldshire is too close to Stormwind. Wrynn would get antsy. How many occupied farmsteads are left in Westfall?"

"Three or four." Marisa answered, skimming down the paper, which was filled with words and codes Alt didn't understand, even though he could read them through the thin document with his non-augmented eye. He switched it back to the visible spectrum and Marisa looked normal again, not the buzzing hub of arcane energy that she had been moments before.

"Take them all out, with Kick the Bucket. If you can, don't let the people flee to Sentinel Hill. The less there, the better."

Her face took on a frightened look that was quickly masked by confusion. "You really plan on taking Sentinel Hill?"

He nodded, wires straining. "In the depths of winter. If we can, I'd like some people put there to dull the knife, so to speak. Not even Stoutmantle knows all of the sons and daughters of farmers in Westfall. We replace the ones that'll be dispatched of with our own."

"The logistics may be tricky," she mused, picking a pencil up from the table next to her and scribbling something on the paper. "But it could be done. What exactly would their residence entail?"

Alt recognized the difference in the shade of light that his eye glowed with as a complicated thought process. The goblin yanked hard on some wonky metal casing around his foot and he grunted. He didn't really mind the goblins and their eternal perfecting, but at the same time he didn't enjoy the pain.

"That hurts?" the goblin asked in a squeaky voice.

"Minimally," he replied. "I do not enjoy it."

The goblin tutted. "I don't think we're ever going to fix your emotional block. It's a malfunction contained to only you… all the others have perfect emotional blocks. I think it's the thorium to iron ratio that messes up the transmissions… much less thorium was used after you, which is probably a good thing."

The metal-man and Marisa had stopped their conversation to take an interest in Alt and the goblin. "So he doesn't have a functioning emotional block?" she asked, curious.

"It does function, Ma'am, just not properly." The goblin replied anxiously, inspecting the re-alignment of the casing.

"So he feels emotions? Just not that well?"

"Correct, Ma'am. He is the only one, though, a defect in the metal ratios. Also, this was the first one we used Thorium bolts in, and only afterwards did we adjust the amounts."

"Take it with you, Marisa, if you are so interested," the metal-man told her. "It has no place in warfare if it has emotions."

"Some would say the same for you," she replied slyly, coming over and inspecting Alt. "I remember you, druid. The little dwarf tricked you into disturbing my barrier. Don't fret, he got his just deserts."

Alt felt happy to know that, and it translated into a wonky smile. "Thank you, Ma'am," he said respectfully.

"You speak no lies, Hagglok, he really does feel." She admired him a second. "Can I have him as a bodyguard?"

"That was the intent, really." The metal-man shrugged. "He is useless for anything else."

"You're too kind," she smiled coyly at him and spoke to Alt. "How do you feel about that, Alt?"

"Pleased," he replied after a bit of thought. She grinned and the goblin, Hagglok, pronounced him serviced. He slid off the bench and flexed his improved muscles.

Marisa bid the metal-man goodbye and Alt followed her out, but she turned and stopped him.

"Not yet, Alt. When I call for you." He walked back, feeling disappointed. Maybe it would be better if he had a proper emotional block, he thought, sitting down on his table.

"Alt, was it?" the metal-man asked, rising from his informal posture leaning against the wall. For the first time, Alt realized he looked quite old, compared to all the other people he had seen down here. His black hair showed strands of grey, and he had deep-set frown lines that made him look perpetually angry. His posture told Alt that he was someone to defer to.

"Yes, Sir," he replied, not sure if he should offer to shake his hand or salute or bow. He made the decision for Alt, stretching out a plated hand for him to take. His grip was firm with years of swordplay and his muscled knotted. His normal eye sparkled with a lust for life and a motto of squeezing every last drop out of it. It also spoke of vengeance, of years of bloodshed and pain, of something big made from nothing.

Alt wasn't sure about the metal-man- he didn't give his name. They stayed in silence, the metal-man brooding over something that had suddenly occurred to him. The night elf let him; not wanting to overstep programmed boundaries that told him this man was one to leave alone. He lay down on his table and stared at the rocky ceiling for a bit, very confused about himself. He knew what was going on, of course, and he remembered his past life lucidly- but he didn't seem to care, or to fight his predicament or orders given to him. It was hurting him to thinking about this kind of thing, so in the end he just closed his eyes and drifted into the state of rest that had replaced sleep- not waking, not sleeping, just resting.

-

They were using daggers again today, for which Conyeri was glad. Geylan had drilled her through staves, maces and swords (both one-hand and two-hand), polearms and fist weapons already, and she was thoroughly glad to be back on a weapon she could use without an embarrassing clumsiness. He was showing her a quick, twisty disarm that required a huge burst of speed at just the right moment, which was good for Conyeri, because she was all about speed. Not strong, not enduring, but sure as hell was she fast.

She lunged again, twisting the hilt of the wooden dagger around Geylan's grip. It was pried from his firm hand and clattered to the floor of the cavern with an incredibly satisfying clunk.

"Good," he gave her a small smile, picking the weapon up. "Again, but make sure your footing stays secure even after you've disarmed them- a well-placed kick would have had you grounded."

"Do I want to know where that kick would be placed?" she raised an eyebrow, and Geylan sighed.

"No. Get on with it." She lunged again, but this time Geylan twisted away from her and hopped around, lashing his booted foot out and catching her squarely in the stomach. Conyeri staggered backwards as the wind was pushed from her, but she didn't complain. This was the start of their sparring.

She loaded all of her weight onto her back foot, but kept her stance normal, lashing out. Geylan saw this and tried to kick her leg from under her, but as she didn't have an reliance on it, she harmlessly lifted it up and whipped her arm around, her wooden dagger meeting his, brought to parry just in time. Taking advantage of the wooden nature of the dagger, she grabbed his and twisted it from his grip, sending it arching over to the edge of the cavern. Excitement bubbled up in her.

Geylan saw her growing confidence and smirked to himself. She was good, yes, and vastly improving, but he was ex-SI:7. He could have killed her before she even took in a breath, but there would be no fun in that. She lunged at him; body low, so he twirled around her side, catching the arm he had expected to lash out in an iron grip. He levered the arm over his shoulder and scooped her up, bridal-style, in one swift movement.

"Confidence kills people," he intoned, looking at her shocked face. "As soon as you thought you had a chance against me, you got sloppy."

"Put me down!" she wriggled in his grip, face flushed an amusing scarlet. "Let me go!"

"This isn't summer camp," Geylan warned her. "As much as you want to pretend, there's real stuff on the line. Your life. My life."

She grimaced. Since Sarah, Conyeri had been mentally blocking everything in the past and the future. There was only now, only the enjoyment of the minute. It was a dangerous philosophy, but she was hanging on by a thread of morality, her brain overflowing with juxtapositions of good, evil, and the shades of gray littered between them. She hated herself for what she was doing, how selfish it was to value her life over the memory of her parents. She enjoyed belonging to something that gave her greater purpose, however dark that purpose was. The company of Geylan, the antics of Dez and Harrman, even her rivalry with Isobella felt more real than anything she had ever experienced before. There was a new intensity to her life, like she had been colourblind before and could now see in startling definition.

Her stomach roiled as Geylan put her down. Something was missing, or was here where it wasn't before. Something was returning, skewed, and full of a feeling Conyeri recognized. She glanced at the singular entrance tunnel to the cave. The whole complex was lit with magic, of course, but she couldn't see much further than a few meters into the corridor. Nevertheless, sight was a poor sense in comparison to the overwhelming screaming in Conyeri's subconscious that told her that happy time was over.

Geylan looked at her with worry. She knew he was expecting a quip, or a smile, or something to identify that he had been paid attention to. Her entire attention had shifted to the tunnel, however, her mind telling her it was more important than sparring.

_Thump, thump, thump._ The muffled sound of hard-soled boots came into focus along the darkened entrance.

_Clank, Clank, Clank_. Conyeri's insides did a full turn as she heard the sound of metal on rock. She knew without doubt it was the metal-man from Carnie. With Marisa. They came into sight and Geylan followed her intent gaze. He immediately saluted her and Conyeri hastened to do the same. She was dressed differently than usual, her plain leather armour replaced with a heavily embroidered shirt pulled tight over her torso, a deep blue. In silver spellthread, runes covered it, shimmering in the magical light. Silk pants that tucked into marvelously crafted boots that matched her shirt replaced her toughened, armoured trousers. Sophistication was a new look for her.

Her thick blonde hair had been pulled up into a ponytail, with strands artfully left loose to frame her face. A silver ring adorned her finger. The metal-man next to her looked tired. His brawny elven body reflected the soft glow, making him golden. This Marisa was a complete opposite of the one Conyeri had had the misfortune to meet six nights before, when she had re-emerged into her life as abruptly as she had left, bringing back all her needs and wants, things that Conyeri had hoped- thought it was more like a desperate prayers- would leave her alone.

"Master Shaw," she addressed him as the two of them came to a stop. "Can I have a word?"

"Yes, Miss Du'Paige," he answered, his voice flat.

"A private word," she looked in Conyeri's direction. "Nice to see you again, Cony."

She merely offered a glare in return. Marisa sighed, but thankfully left her alone. For now.

"Alt, stay with Cony while I talk with him." The metal-man, Alt, obliged unblinkingly and walked slowly to Conyeri's side. She shied away from his presence. Marisa and Geylan walked off, down into a more private place, considering that there were other classes going on in the main cavern, and people in their rooms. Geylan shot Conyeri an apologetic look over his shoulder before disappearing into the gloom.

"Good morning," Alt said, holding a hand out for her to shake. She looked at it in mild disgust. Was the thing being nice to her? Was it programmed to do that? She remained silent and the metal-man looked a little offended. "Am I wrong? I thought that in human culture, shaking hands was a standard greeting."

"Uh," she was confused now. "It is."

"Then why will you not shake my hand?" It asked. "Would you prefer an elfish greeting? You are of such descent, but diluted beyond recovery from…" Alt's face became calculating. "At least forty generations."

So, Geylan's first theory had been correct. It was nicer to know that she was of elfish descent rather than troll, but it disconcerted her that the metal-man could know this from just looking at her. He pressed his hands together as if in prayers and gave a short bow.

"Ishnu-alah," he said, his voice gravely with something she did not understand. Sadness, perhaps? Or longing? His common was perfect, with years of living away from his kin. The elfish greeting was something she had not anticipated, so she mimicked his actions, without the strange words she did not understand.

"You are not scared of me," he observed lightly, his brow knitted with concentration. "I have seen you before. You are scared of your own decisions."

"How the hell would you know what I'm scared of?" Her eyes widened at the words that came out. She didn't mean to say them, but the sudden insight that Alt was providing was all too uncomfortable to listen to.

"Miss Du'Paige speaks of you a lot," he admitted. "She is insane."

Conyeri didn't know what appalled her more, that Marisa actually spoke about her, or that Alt had openly and frankly called her insane. "So?"

"She is very fragile." He searched for words. "I have been in her direct employs for over a week, and as such I have witnessed many of such incidents. I am at liberty to tell you this because she has not directly ordered me not to speak of it." He looked a little embarrassed. Conyeri understood, from his long-winded way of saying it, that he was gossiping.

"Is she…" the girl scratched her head and searched for an appropriate phrase. "Sound of mind?"

"Mostly," Alt replied. "She has a dependency on magic nearly rivaling that of the highborne. She is insecure and childish. She is sadistic."

"Tell me something I don't know," she muttered, deciding that after any longer than a few minutes with Marisa, Geylan would not be up for more sparring. She put the dagger back in one of the surrounding crates before stripping off her leather armour and reveling in the cool breeze that filtered through her linen shirt. A catcall came from someone the other side of the cavern, but she ignored it and, thinking that Alt was safe enough to follow her back to Geylan's cubby, walked back there. He clanked behind her, still garnering looks of interest from the assembled trainees.

"Why is Mar- Miss Du'Paige- dressed up?" she asked in what she hoped was an off-hand remark as she shifted some papers off her thin, spongy mattress. Geylan had pilfered it from the supply office when she had decided that Marisa wouldn't be back any time soon.

"I am not at liberty to tell you that," he said, face cool. "But…I can tell you what she is speaking with master Shaw about."

"Good enough," Conyeri said, unsure whether she could change with Alt in the room. He was obviously once a man, but did he still have carnal urges? She decided against it and shimmied behind a small, thick parchment screen, again from the stores.

His voice took on a strange pitch and tone, and when he started talking, it was Marisa's voice, not his. It was like he had taken a recording and was playing it back.

"What do you know of Sentinel Hill, Alt?" He asked as Marisa, and then his voice dropped several octaves into its natural tone.

"A primarily human settlement in the mid-east of Westfall, population of around 300 persons, over a quarter of those involved in military work. It is the second-closest independent settlement to Stormwind after Goldshire, not counting Northshire Abbey as the population is not high enough to constitute it as a village."

"Personally," Alt as Marisa pushed him. "You've visited several times."

"Yes," he replied. "I have operated out of Sentinel Hill as a base for my missions in Westfall, mostly pertaining to the Defias Brotherhood." He pauses. "What are you planning to do there?"

"We're taking it," her voice was slick. "After we send the occupants of the farmsteads all into one place, we'll deploy the project that preceded you. With the last bastion of rebellion gone, Westfall will be declared a Defias state."

"Are they not smart enough to know that when a huge influx of people seek refuge with them, a large attack is planned? They would be prepared." Conyeri now saw the reason Alt was asking her question and she was taking them: he was acting as a sharpening stone for her ideas

"We are sending some of our people in with the farmers. Their function would be to sow the seeds of laxity within the community, with fake information- and we'll be sending smaller raids of fodder to the outskirts to distract them until we can get Project Kick the Bucket sufficiently organized."

There was a small clicking noise coming from Alt, like he really was stopping a tape. It was scary, but Conyeri swallowed her fear and came out from behind the screen in simple cotton breeches with leather kneepads, worn leather boots and a shirt several sizes too big for her. There was a system of purchase within the trainees, and considering that Conyeri had come in with nothing, she was doing well to have a couple of changed of clothes. A base set was provided, but any surplus had to be bought out of 'wages'. Conyeri was skeptical at first, considering everything, but it turned out that small wages were paid to trainees to keep them on their feet. The less you had, the grittier your clothes generally were. When you got higher up, like Geylan, you were paid by your performance in raids and such, the loot being split between the people involved, the general Defias vault, which financed things like the projects and the trainee's pay, and the higher-ups who did the planning.

People like Marzon, who did a lot of teaching and didn't participate in so many raids, were paid a chunk of their trainee's pay. Conyeri knew that 30% of her monthly wage went to his pocket.

"So, Geylan is going as one of the farmers," she deduced. "Won't people recognize him as Mathias Shaw's son?"

Alt's eye became far away. His voice became more aqueous, the harsh touch of metal falling from it. "It was ages ago," he said, some Darnassian accent slipping through. "I was in Stormwind at the time, back from Stranglethorn. I was called to testify, since I had been with him in Booty Bay. We were running errands together. I was disgusted at him, that he would aid the enemy. I am a druid… the Cenarion Circle is on friendly terms with the Tauren, but I can't forget now the Orcs ravage Ashenvale. I gave a huge testimony against him, and he was sentenced to exile, in front of his own father." He stiffened again. "He has been away many years. His appearance is so different to that of his father that there is little problem."

"Ok," she said, watching Alt slip out of focus as she looked around him to see Dez and Harrman approaching Geylan's cubby. "Excuse me,"

He swiftly moved aside and she went out to greet them. "Geylan's not here,"

"Eh? What's 'e up to now, 'e's supposed te be trainin' ye." Dez's thick and at times incomprehensible Lakeshire accent asked.

"Miss Du'Paige wanted to talk to him. I think he's going on a mission."

"No shit?" Harrman said, eyes wide. "Do you know what kind?"

"No," she lied. "I'm sure he'll tell us when he gets back. What were you going to talk to him about anyway?"

"I was gonna ask fer some help with brawl tactics," Dez admitted, waving a sheath of papers at Conyeri. If there was one thing she couldn't complain about, it was that she wasn't getting a thorough education. The Defias were more meticulous than any guild or school would be. They had to be, she guessed, to survive as long as they had so close to the influence of Stormwind.

"He should be back soon," she said hesitantly, inviting them in. Harrman froze when he saw Alt. "Ah. This is Alt. He's Marisa's bodyguard."

"Er," Dez held out a hand. "Nice the meetcha, Alt." something crossed his face. "What'was that you just said, Conyeri?"

"Uh… 'He's Marisa's bodyguard', I think. Why?"

"You called her Marisa." He said, looking at her worriedly. "I know that she's… got it for you, but ya usually call her tha Monster, or Miss Du'Paige."

"Well, sorry," she grumbled. "She's not here. I can use her first name if I like."

"That ya can, I don't doubt it." He let go of Alt's hand and Harrman took it with apprehension. "But it sets a dangerous pred… pref…what's the word?"

"Precedence," Harrman said. "I agree. If you're heard calling her by her first name, like you're on friendly terms, others are only going to get more angry at you."

"Why would they get angry?" She asked, barely concealing the ire in her voice. She had called Marisa by her first name, so what? It wasn't like she was enjoying what was done to her. She was tolerating it. There was little choice in the matter.

She thought about that. Choice. It was a word that was becoming alien to her tongue. She had had no choice in coming here. She had no choice in staying. Marisa had a choice, but she chose to follow her desires over her head. Geylan had a choice, and he still sold poisons to the Horde. Isobella had no choice. The word made her head spin. It was too complicated to dwell on, venturing dangerously near her delicate moral weave, tattered and threadbare. She tried to pull away from the lure of sinking into her problems, but it just tugged her harder. What the hell was she doing here? She could get away. Become a hermit. Was her soul stained with the death of Sarah that fouled her heart? What was evil, what was good? Why was everything grey and not like it was in storybooks as a child?

She didn't enjoy this; this growing up and having to deal with the problems it brought her.

"You are shaking," Alt told her nonchalantly, his deep voice cutting her moral weave to shreds. He was horrible. An abomination of nature. He had no choice. The Defias made the choice for him. They were evil. She wondered how long she would have to say these things before she honestly believed them.

"No shit," she said, the cuss word feeling good as it rolled out of her mouth. She understood rage well. She couldn't claim any experience of desire, or addiction that made up Marisa's vices. "You're right," she said through gritted teeth. "It was stupid."

"Your eyes flicker when you lie," Alt simply said.

"Your eye flickers when the bulb needs to be replaced," she told him icily. He looked hurt, but she'd gotten too riled up to care. Sparring with Geylan was a good outlet for the anger, and it had been cut short today. And Conyeri DeHayersae was very, very angry, and for the first time in her life, there was nobody to calm her down. Nobody to change anger to sadness so she could go cry it off. Just pure ire that flushed her face and set her fist shaking while her knuckles whitened.

"Calm down, lass," Dez regretfully said. He glanced at Harrman for support.

"It don't matter now. How 'bout we go to the refectory and get a hot drink? It's getting colder by the day,"

"No," She said tightly. "I'm not in the mood."

"We'll go then. Tell Geylan I stopped by." Dez gave her a final look and then walked away. She gruffly turned and bumped straight into Alt's brawny chest, forgetting he had been standing behind her.

"Can you leave me alone for a second?"

"Miss Du'Paige requested I keep you company," he replied mildly, stepping back swiftly and she stormed back into Geylan's cubby. "And you do know you'll have to move back into her quarters."

"She can go fuck herself for all I care!" Conyeri shouted at him, snapping. Her head was too mixed up right now, her hormones raging. She didn't care if she hurt Alt's half-feelings. "Just get the fuck out of my fucking room!"

"Profanity shows lack of developed vocabulary," he intoned dully, seemingly goading her further. "And this is Master Shaw's room, not yours."

"Why do you give a shit!? Who are you kidding? Go back to the foundry and tell them to weld your mouth shut!" she chucked a wooden dagger that was lying on the floor at him, which he caught without a moment's hesitation. His face crumpled with an attempt at a frown.

"Unprovoked aggression can be caused by mental stress, consequential-" He was winded when Conyeri rammed into his stomach, but remained stationary. She came away nursing her head, a trickle of blood marring her face. His stomach was plated. She went in again, this time kicking him in his manhood. Her foot came off the worse.

"Is there any part of you not covered in metal?" she exclaimed, wincing. It felt good to hit something. Though probably not the most constructive outlet for her anger, it was nevertheless enjoyable in a sadistic sense. Fear washed over her then. Sadistic. One of the things Alt had listed Marisa as.

"Just leave, okay? Can I give you the order to leave?"

"Miss Du'Paige is the only person who can directly order me, and she told me to stay." He recited, feeling his reinforced stomach with clicking finger joints. "Thus I will, however many times you hit me."

"Fucking robot!" she huffed, but thought better of striking him again. She would probably come off the worse. Instead, she decided to outwit him, which would be easy. She briskly took her towel and soap and headed towards the washrooms, small pools of sulphurous hot spring water separated by a partition. There were vastly more men than women in the Defias, so they enjoyed the bigger pool, but the women's one was hotter and didn't smell so bad. She smiled, knowing that Alt would not follow her into the designated female-only area.

He did.

"You're not allowed here," she said, agitated. "Whatever Marisa says."

"I was ordered to keep you company, and even the gender restriction does not override the orders of the third in command of the Defias." He said, a hint of smug in his words. She wanted to punch his face in, but the outcomes would most likely leave her with not only a bleeding head and an aching foot, but a shattered hand as well. Se briefly contemplated actually going for a wash with him in the room, but decided against it and trudged back to Geylan's cubby. She couldn't stay here now that Marisa was back, as much as she wanted to.

She growled under her breath and put the towel and soap away, Alt omnipresent at her back. Her nerves were fraying dangerously fast again, and she idly wondered if she could find that stuck-up bastard Nightly and take out some anger on him. It was frustrating that however much she learnt, she was still the bottom of the food chain. Geylan could down her in a matter of seconds if he wanted. Nightly probably could too. Alt most certainly, but he'd have to be ordered to.

"I have been alive a great deal longer than you will ever live." Alt began tentatively. "Though now I will have approximately the same life span as you."

"Not surprised," she ignored the quiver in his voice, pulling out some parchment and trying to decipher Geylan's scribble. He had given her the paper on basic poisons when she had expressed interest in the subject. She didn't really like poisons, but it gave her mind something to focus upon, and she found it interesting.

"I have seen much in my life," Alt was babbling again. "And known many people. But, no offense meant, you do not seem the type to revel in bloodshed and thievery as many here do."

"Well done," she cocked an eyebrow. "I didn't have a choice, same as you. Unless you volunteered, then you're a sick bastard."

"No," he said softly, eyes downcast. "I was in a group raiding the Deadmines."

"You're one of the ones taken," she guessed. Rumours traveled fast in such an enclosed community.

"I fear I serve a better fate than my companions. Miss Du'Paige took me to see my friend Yohwyn, a paladin."

"And he was two feet taller, rotting and thirsty for flesh?" she guessed cuttingly. She knew about the project the Defias were brewing, and not just the one Alt was involved in. The Defias had perfected the undead plague to a degree, and it was being used to turn the dead into an army that desecrated anything they touched.

"He was a great warrior. Short tempered and zealous, yes, but good of heart. He did not deserve what happened to him."

"Is it my problem?"

"Is it?" He countered, holding her to a level gaze. "If I could, I would hate myself. You can. Do you?"

"No." she stared harder at the list of ingredients, trying to push everything out. It didn't work. All she could think of when it told her to crush silverleaves was Marzon crushing Sarah's chest. The only thing that sprung to mind when it said to cut the earthroot into neat slices was how her dagger sliced through Sarah's throat. Something welled up behind her eyes. It was tears.

"I am sorry- I didn't mean to…" Alt looked at her. She had gone from pissed off to manic-depressive in a flash. "I need to voice my thoughts sometimes…"

"Whatever," Conyeri said, voice threatening to break. She was a monster, a murdering, ruthless monster. Just like Marisa. She panicked, her yes flitting from the sheet of poisons to the dagger belted to her hip. How could she have ever justified her actions? How could it have been kind to kill Sarah? The smut covering her immortal soul wouldn't just wash off in a few tears. It was there forever, to mark her as a killer, a murderer.

She barreled past Alt, needing fresh air. She hadn't had any since the camp, and she didn't come out of that feeling anything but dirty. Conyeri needed to be cleansed, to believe without a doubt that she was anything but what she was. The way to the surface was long, and winding, and she had followed Geylan closely last time. She was lost before long; the clomping of Alt's heavy body had faded long ago as she had run on, her lungs burning and her eyes stinging. The air was thicker, more cloying with a scent of death that came in puffs with the otherworldly subterranean wind, snaking its way through the caves. She didn't know how far she'd run, and didn't know the way back. Stupid of her, really, but she had been too disgusted to care.

Leaning on the wall of the rough-hewn corridor, she panted. She had options. She could go back the way she'd come, and eventually she'd find somewhere within the Defias system.

Or she could escape.

The idea tantalized her, tugging her heartstrings. The tattoo on her hand was enough to get her shunned everywhere, but did that matter? She could stick to herself. Travel around, wear gloves. Dye her hair. She could reconcile herself, run away from the life she had set out in front of her.

It was too good to lose. Her fatigue vanished and she skipped along the tunnels, pausing to see which direction the wind was coming from. The air got lighter, filled with surface scents. The walls of the cave widened, and plants began to cling with varying success to the rapidly earthening stone. Conyeri came to the end of a tunnel. The wind was clearly coming from here, but it was a dead end. She was about to start cussing when she heard a soft moan from above. Wary, she looked up to find the ceiling was flat and dark stone, lower that it should be. She pushed up on it, and it gave. Excited, she pushed the stone across a bit, revealing a crack. Light shone down, the light of fel-fires. She was frightened. Fel-fire was eternal, usually put in to light crypts so that nobody would have to go down and renew the spell. Nevertheless, the promise of the surface and freedom was her carrot on a stick, and Conyeri pushed the stone further, making a hole just big enough for her small body to exit from.

She heard another groan. It was so light, though, and the wind whooshing down the tunnel was causing other, similar noises, that she disregarded it. She pulled herself out of the hole with a single heave and hefted herself on top of the stone. It was a grave, as she had expected. Around her was a large mausoleum, of what was once one. Fel-fire burned in rusty brackets on the walls, and the whole place was a tip. Graves were cracked, tombs pulled open and the ground around disturbed. Dread settled in a blanketing layer over Conyeri's mind, but she could see where to exit. The whoosh of the wind made another small moan. She stopped.

A faint scratching came from somewhere. She wheeled around, eyeing the way back to the Defias. It looked inviting now, in this ominous crypt, but she screwed her eyes shut and told herself she wouldn't be weak. She'd escape.

It came for her, lunging our of a side grave with frightening speed. Conyeri sidestepped, her heart beating a million times a minute. The creature had once been a woman, though now was something else entirely. Great chunks of her flesh oozed acidic blood and her skin crawled with maggots. Her hands were fleshy claws, dripping gore as they flexed in anticipation. Her eyes were sockets, one of them gooey and festering sliding down her cheek where it congealed, white upon pallid greenish skin. Her mouth, filled with rows of jagged teeth and open at the bottom where she was missing half of her lower jaw, lolled around, saliva coating her neck and she lunged again.

Her gurgles were not unheard, and Conyeri's eyes shot open when more of the ghouls started to come out of the figurative woodwork, slow and ambling, wondering what the fuss was about. They all smelt her, one after the other, and their actions became snappy and driven by eternal hunger.

Conyeri drew her dagger shakily, plunging it into the chest of the woman. She completely disregarded it, clawing again for Conyeri's head, managing to grab her arm and pulling on it with frightening strength. The only living person in the room gasped as her shoulder dislocated. She pulled the dagger out of the ghoul woman and cut instead into the sinew of her neck, making her head fall back, flopping back on the flap of skin.

She kept coming.

Conyeri nearly soiled herself in fear as one of the ghouls went towards the exit into the Defias tunnels. That was her way out. Or up, but how many more ghouls were waiting for her? How infected had this place been?

The ghouls began to descend upon her in a pack, their eyes ravenous. Conyeri switched tactics and tried to vanish, an ability Marzon had been just starting to explain to them. The ghouls looked confused for a minute, but they were smarter than that. She was backed into one of the smaller graves to the side of the crypt, and there was nowhere else she could be. The grip on her vanish became tentative as the seconds passed. She eventually had to let it go and maintained normal stealth, but they saw through it easily, all rushing into the enclosed space for their meal at once. In a sick way, it reminded Conyeri of Geylan's cubby.

The woman was at their forefront, gibbering madly and frothing at the mouth. Conyeri backed right into the corner and panicked, feeling her death imminent. It was the most horrible, terrifying thing she thought she could ever feel. Greedy hands grabbed at her, postulating sores stung her skin as she was pulled into the crowd. She didn't believe in God, or the Light, or anything, and considered converting in those sickening seconds. She felt a surge of pain as jagged fangs clamped onto her arm, then her neck and shoulder. She was dying, as ghoul food. Stupid girl. Stupid for running off. Stupid-

The hands left her. Ghouls scuttled to the side into a semi-circle. In front of her was a huge ghoul, more gruesome than any other she saw around. He- for it was a he- was the undisputed leader of the group, even stopping them during their feeding frenzy.

"Uhhhh…." He gurgled, his hungry eyes showing something else, something disconcerting. "Cuunnnyyryy??"

She froze. He tried again. "Couunnyrrii?"

"Conyeri," she breathed, shock sending lightning through her body. He knew her name, and jumped a little, eyes wild with excitement. "Who, um, are you?"

He looked confused, like he hardly understood. The other ghouls began to bay, a low whine of hunger, shuffling forward on decrepit limbs.

"Nhhhaaa!" the lead ghoul roared at them, and then shied away, albeit reluctantly. "Hhhaaarggggn,"

"Hargn?" she breathed. "Hargn… Harrigan. Holy… you're my father."

Conyeri threw up onto the mussed earth. "Dad. Harrigan. My father." He was undead. Undead. Dead and then not dead. Tormented. Flesh-hungry. "Where is mum?"

He howled wildly, spittle flying from his teeth. The first woman who had attacked her scuttled forward, the same one with the partially severed head and the gaping chest wound. Her mother had just tried to kill her and eat her. Oh gods.

If she had the time, she would have been furious with the Defias. Their forays into plague and their greed of more land had done this to her parents. They'd never be laid to rest. There was no time, however, for anything but survival instincts. Her body was aching dangerously and the ghouls would not stay back forever. She didn't want to leave her father or mother, but there was nothing she could do for them. She needed to escape, and this was her window. Taking a step forward, the injured girl stepped past the ghouls, who surged after her, but Harrigan stepped in front of them.

He was not enough. He may be the leader, but their urges were stronger than rickety hierarchy. Conyeri ran, she screeching of ghouls on her heels. The loose earth was treacherous, her boots sinking in. other things, darker things, stirred in the shadows as she passed, but they slid past her vision, so focused she was on escaping.

A hand clamped her ankle and she fell face first into the earth, tasting a mouthful of dead person. Vicious teeth sunk into her ankle, ripping the skin cleanly off. There was a shriek of elation from the rapidly enclosing ghouls. Conyeri flipped over to see dangerous green fluid drooling from the ghoul's maw and into her open wound. She kicked it off and scrambled to her feet, pain lacing through her. There was a staircase upward, she took it, wheeling around the corner and thumping painfully into the wall of the crypt, but sprinting up the stairs anyway. She heard the soft cawing of a raven and her heart leapt into her throat. It was daytime, and ghouls wouldn't stray too far from their place of rest. At least she hoped they wouldn't.

Breaking out into the daylight, she saw in horror that there were skulking shapes lingering around graves. Undead cooed out from their places of un-rest, their hollow sockets of eyes taking in the new arrival.

She just ran. Ran with the ghouls behind her. Ran under the huge canopy of trees that only let small shafts of dappled sunlight through their enveloping thatches of dimmed leaves, stiff with the autumn turn. Ran until her lungs could hold no more air and her body was left like a hinge that had never been oiled. Ran until she reached a small village.

There was an inn. Nobody was around, but she rounded the small wooden porch and grabbed a banister to support herself. A small, nervous titter of surprise came from somewhere in the back, followed by the crash of a pan falling to the floor and a stream of curses in the high pitched voice. A head poked around the small pantry, and upon seeing her enlarged into a body. A sturdy man in his middle years, a little of a gut on him, with messy blondish hair and an unkempt mustache. He can over to her, his hands shaky.

"Are you okay, miss?" he asked, pausing at about two meters away, looking uncomfortable.

"Do I fucking… look it?" she gasped, precious lungfuls of dusty air traveling in and out of her, something she had never properly appreciated before now.

"N-no, of course not…" he apologized. "I'll get the first aid stuff." He scuffled behind the pantry again and came out with a roll of bandages. She let him bandage up her wounds, soundlessly thankful. Blackness threatened to creep from the edges of her vision, but she willed herself to stay awake. His eyes fell to the bit on her arm. "Can I take your glove off?"

Conyeri couldn't care less what he did. She was safe, and there was a small fire in the cooking fire. She was laid on the preparation table, as stairs were thrice what she could handle right now. He peeled the leather off with a rip of skin and she groaned, stifling the pain.

"Oh," he exclaimed, regarding her hand. "Defias."

Ah, shit, Conyeri thought. The tattoo. He wouldn't help her now. She was finished. "What are you doing outside camp?"

She looked at his own hand, marred thought it was, and saw the outline of the stonemason's cog. This was worse. Now he'd want to know why she had escaped. She'd be taken back, back to the people who had killed and un-killed her parents and tortured innocent people into metal-men, who were going to wipe out Sentinel Hill. She didn't want to go back. She couldn't stay here.

"We'll get you back soon enough, anyway…" he said. "P-people call me Jitters." She pushed herself up. "What are you doing?"

She ambled out of the inn as fast as her wounds would let her, but not before vanishing. It took a great deal of strength she did not have, and she silently thanked whoever was watching over her. "Where are you? Come back! You're injured!" His voice became faint as Conyeri found herself in the centre of a small village, decrepit and abandoned. Her pace doubly slow with pain and stealth, she laboriously dragged her limbs along the path. She skirted around a small, lighted camp and followed a small, winding path upwards. The scenery began changing, the murk replaced with mossy ground and overhanging trees with huge boughs and purplish leaves. A feeling of peace perpetuated the place, and Conyeri's eyelids began to droop. She found the misty aura of the place intoxicating, and soon staggered into a tree and dropped down unceremoniously into a downy nest of leaves. She was unaware if it was sleep, unconsciousness or death that took her then.

-

The raw morning light that glared with disapproval through Baros Alexton's window, frowning upon his secret activities. The paper in his gnarled hands was thick and rich, the ink soaking into it like knowledge into a curious child, his neat and loopy handwriting cultivated through years of scribing in his younger days.

He had just officially signed the death warrant on a seventeen-year-old girl.

And it felt very good.

The thought of Harrigan DeHayersae writhing in his grave, his daughter a wanted criminal, pulled a smirk from Baros's ageing lips. P-P knocked on his door, but he told him to go away, his eyes transfixed on the paper.

P-P knocked again, this time more insistent. His voice, ravaged by the uncertainty of mid-puberty, came muffle through the wood. "The King is here to see you, Sir!"

"Damn," he cussed, pulling some breeched on and smoothing his hair. No sooner had he done so than the door boomed open and King Wrynn, in his full and imposing armour. Sweat lined his brow as he ducked under the doorframe. He was so tall.

"Master Alexton, I am sorry to disturb you, but this cannot wait." His rich voice filled the room as his dark eyes locked with Baros's.

"No, no," he said quickly. "Please, tell me."

"Sentinel Hill is under siege. We sent in a unit of backup, but they did nothing. The borders of Westfall have all been fortified. The Defias have taken over."

The architect's mouth fell open. Edwin had been ambitious… but ambitious enough to take over a whole region? Right next to Stormwind, no less?

"What action is going to be taken?" he asked.

The king sighed and ran gloved fingers through sweaty hair. Had he been to the frontline? "Our forces are so widely and sparsely stretched… Outland, Northrend, Elwyn, the capital itself, constantly under siege… even if we had the force, it would be suicide. There are so many of them, so well trained. We have been underestimating Edwin all these years, I fear."

"Gods," Baros's voice became low. His enjoyment evaporated, a shallow puddle in the baking Tanaris dunes. As soon as he had made a small victory, it was overwhelmed by a great step backwards. "What do you propose we do?"

"We tried conspicuous." The king said, eyeing P-P in a way such that he looked predatory. "Now, perhaps, subterfuge."

"If you can't beat them, join them." Baros followed the monarch's gaze. "Do you fancy a pay rise, boy?"

"Um," he paled. "What d-do you mean, s-sir?"

"Your parents are in terrible trouble. They threw you out onto the streets. You've been stealing and begging the streets of Stormwind for several months. Now that the Defias are openly in control of Westfall, you've found something to live for."

"S-sir… are you saying… d-do you mean…" his voice cut off as Wrynn nodded.

"In a great service to your country, son." The king insisted. "Money can be provided. I understand you're financing your family. I can arrange for a stable income to go to your address while you are away. A title, perhaps, as a knight of the realm?"  
"Sir… I can't believe…"

"You'd better. I ask you because you know much of what is going on here, and the less people knowing, the better." His tone cast a serious spell on P-P, who nodded, his eyes full of awe.

Baros was surprised at the speed at which the deal was closed. In his aristocratic life, decisions were slow and hindered at every step by somebody complaining. The king, however, could overrun anything, do anything. This was probably outside the law, but if it would bring the Defias down… Baros would use it.

He'd be sorry to lose P-P. They boy may be spindly and meek, but he brewed excellent coffee and tidied his residence impeccably. The likelihood that he would come back with the right limbs was minimal. With no Mrs. Alexton to run his errands and stoke him fires, he'd be forced to hire another servant. They didn't come cheap from reputable sources, and illegally sold services would mar Baros's perfect record.

"Right then. The sooner, the better, to be honest. I'll see that your back story is credible, then we can set about briefing you on what you're to do," Varian nodded stiffly, and turned back to Baros. "Meanwhile, Baros, I fear that searching for the girl under the present circumstances would be foolish. The warrant you hold can still go out, but we need the main focus to be the general Defias population as opposed to select members."

"Sir," Baros said, question in his voice. "Who is the new leader now that VanCleef is dead?"

"He is not." Varian glared at the wall. "He may have been 'killed', but the Defias' tactics remain in exactly his pattern. I suspect that through some miracle they brought him back. His head is missing from its pike on Sentinel Hill… that was only hours after it was recovered."

Baros's spirits fell further. He had held a small amount of hope that with Edwin's death, the Defias would break, but it was not so. "I see. I'll broaden my search, your majesty."

"I wish you luck." He nodded curtly. "Boy, I expect you in the upstairs parlour of the Lion's Pride Inn, Goldshire. It is a short ride out of Stormwind, and I will be at the front in Westfall, and thus an inconspicuous place of meeting would be best. I will be under the name of…" he paused. "Ollian Hammermantle. Dressed as a smith."

"Y-yes, your highness," he bowed low, and the King offered them a nod before stooping under the door and leaving with a soft thud of the door closing.

A silence of understanding settled over the luscious room. If P-P came back from this mission, he'd not only equal but also surpass Baros in stature. That was a scary and frankly disgusting thought that someone so low born could end up in such a high place. He regarded P-P thoughtfully. He was maybe a couple inches shy of six foot, but his frame wasn't thickened and strengthened with adulthood. He had dull brown hair that was brushed smoothly down, so that it nearly fell over his eyes, which were a liquid blue and scared. He was very normal looking, without any of the budding heroism that Baros saw in knights or warriors.

A sneer of distaste curled his lip, but P-P didn't see it, so awed was he not only by the king's appearance and personal address, but the promises he had been given. Baros imagined that he was from a poor family, and what he was paying the boy now was meager at best. The fixed income would help them, and having their son made a knight… with the wealth and prestige that came with the title- they'd never have to worry again.

That was if he came back.

-

Geylan's greasy blonde hair flopped over his eyes and he pushed it away, agitated. He was tired and aching from the take over of Sentinel Hill, having learned that in civvies, the Defias had the same go at him until the very last minute when he had been sensible enough to grab a bandana from a dead body. And Conyeri was nowhere to be found- he was only just back from his mission, and the first person he had wanted to see was her, hand on hip and smirking at him, a cutting remark on the tip of her tongue.

He had searched his cubby. Poked a head into Marisa's. The refectory, the first aid bay, the stores. Marzy's classroom. She was nowhere to be found, and nor was much of the Defias, as they were fighting up top against the last of the forces. It felt weird to know that they weren't hiding any more, that they actually controlled Westfall.

Maybe Conyeri had been sent up top?

Would they do that? She wasn't out of training yet. She could hold her own, but not in a proper, full-on battle. And was she ready? He remembered the look on her face when Sarah had stopped breathing, in pain thought he was. He didn't think she would kill again, at least not until she'd sorted that moral battle that raged behind her deep, brown eyes. He hadn't even gotten to say goodbye or tell her about his mission. What if she was wounded? What if she had been… killed?

He shook the images from his head, and more hair stuck to his sweaty face. He wanted to shower and change into clean clothes, but he wanted to see Cony more. Where on earth was she?

He rounded a corner and came back to the main cavern. It had only been a two nights since he had been here last, but it had changed. There were no people sparring, or talking amiably, and cubbies were left empty. The people who occupied them might be dead, or worse. The trainees must still be here?

He gave up on Cony, thinking perhaps she was in the baths, and that led him on to how bad he smelled. Blood, dirt and sweat were not attractive, by any stretch of the imagination, and he figured that if Cony was in the baths, she'd come out sooner or later, and then it would be better for him to appear clean so that she wouldn't mock him.

The sulfurous steam that rushed out from the cracks in the bamboo door made the back of Geylan's neck prickle. He walked in, stripping down until he was just wearing a towel, marveling at how he was so dirty that he looked tanned. Splashing reached his ears as he turned into the pool, to see a good group of the trainees splashing each other in the pool. How immature of them, when people aboveground were dying and fighting. You had to admire their sense of priority.

Harrman, his wiry frame sunk into the blissfully warm water, saw him and waved. "How did it go?" he asked as Geylan got in. The water stung his cuts, but his tightly bunched muscles unknotted as the warmth suffused them. It was good to be away from the battlefield… he was a fighter, yes, born and bred, but there was a certain guilt that wriggled in his stomach at the thought of killing people, which he did on a daily basis. He had been with the Defias for over a year, and in that time had been through the slow learning curve Conyeri was just embarking on, filled with the same self-loathing, the violence, and the friendships. You learned to be tough. To survive, and to hold on to what you had and never let go.

"Alright. I managed to get some town leaders and divert most of their forces to the wrong side before the main forces got there, but Nightly got Stoutmantle, which pissed me off. He was acting so important until a wayward arrow found its way into his leg."

"Wayward?" Dez and jack spotted them through the smoke and came over.

"I was honestly aiming for the man behind him," Geylan shrugged and smirked as they chuckled. "Have any of you seen Conyeri?"

"We were about to ask you the same question. She stormed off and we guessed she'd gone to meet with you on the surface." Harrman's brow furrowed.

"You let her storm off alone into a cavern system she hardly knows?" He asked, eyes wide, stopping mid-lather with the soap.

"Alt went wit' 'er." Dez said quietly, not wanting to induce the wrath of Shaw Jr. "Ya know, Miss Du'Paige's bodyguard?"

"You let her storm off with someone under direct orders from Marisa into a cavern system she hardly knows?" he rephrased his question, the slimy soap slipping from his tightening grip. "What the hell were you on!?"

"'Old on," Jack, ever the peacemaker, tried to dissolve the rising tempers. "The metal-man must be way faster than 'er. He probly caught up te her an' took 'er somewhere te calm down."

"No," Geylan said softly. "She's way faster than him, and even if he has a blueprint of the caves in his mind, he can't know where she went."

"Pessimist," Harrman muttered. "If she did get lost, all of the caves end up somewhere up-top. She probably got out and is traveling back here now."

"Be quiet a minute, will you?" Geylan's mind mapped the tunnels. If she had stormed off the way he assumed she had, there were four exits- one in the Dagger Hills, One in Moonbrook, One in the Jangolode Mine in Elwyn, and one in the Dawning Wood Catacombs in Duskwood.

Shit.

Conyeri was left-handed. She had a great prejudice towards the right hand side of anything- they'd laughed about how she'd always walk along the left hand side of a corridor. She would take the left tunnel, subconsciously. The one that led to the catacombs.

She was dead.

-

I do so enjoy dramatic irony.

~Emmy


	5. Chapter 5

A/N- I stayed up like 4 straight hours last night (this morning) to get hallways through this. Please review; it makes me a happy author.

The Brotherhood

Chapter 5

Purple.

That was the first though Conyeri had when she awoke. Everything was purple, all the leaves, the trees, her own hands, the sky, and the very air. She took this new tint of vision in her stride, rolling over on her bed of leaves. They crackled underneath her, but the discomfort was small price to pay for the sense of peace that instilled in her. It was just past dawn, and the light was spilling over the tall hills that surrounded the strange, elven grove in the centre of Duskwood, gently easing a breath of golden clarity into the dusky earth.

Her body was wrecked, and she knew it. Her throat was cut up and raw from panting and pulling chilled lungfuls of air in at a rate that was not physically possible. Her skin was bruised, punctured, infected, gouged with the remnants of her less-than-narrow escape from the ghouls. Her head was exploding, her eyelids sluggish, her vision drifting into different spectrums. The only thing intact was her pool of talent, which suffused her body and gave her the abilities of her chosen class, leaning towards more shadowy arts. It recovered quickly.

On hands shaky with loss of blood and adrenaline withdrawal, she pushed her tattered frame up. The girl groaned and clenched her fists as scabbing sores stretched an re-opened, wounds and bumps began to swell and blood rushed into her skull, thick with pain-laced impulses. She toppled against the tree's thick trunk, liking the rigidity of it.

"By the light…" she muttered in a raspy whisper. Something scampered away at the emission, flitting from her right to further along the grassy floor. It was a squirrel, bushy tail standing on end. "No…" she looked at it. "Don't go away."

It did.

Left alone, utterly broken and exhausted, Conyeri sat watching the grove, wondering if she'd die here. She supposed it was better than being ghoul fodder, but slower.

Drifting off got easier as the sun came higher in the sky and the weather warmed. If she didn't die of hunger or blood loss, she would from cold during the night. Greens became purples that faded into grays and eventually black, drifting into the edges f her consciousness and clinging, lamprey-like to her thoughts, dragging them into a deep slumber, her along with them.

Days passed like this. Maybe a week, Conyeri didn't know. It left her time to think, to explore things she hadn't before. The idea of death, of god, of power and love. Musings filled her few waking hours, intermittently interrupted by fantasies of Geylan and Dez and Harrman coming to rescue her, Sarah getting resurrected, her parents being cured or given peace. They were all very nice, but she'd cry when she figured out they were lies. She was becoming worse; she could feel her flesh festering and her mind dulling. Her skin was pasty white, tinged with and unhealthy green of infection. She lamented that her life would be for nothing, that she had changed so little.

The fourth or fifth day, she found the energy to stand up.

It was monumentous. That morning, she had woken up to find she felt better. Stronger. She wanted to test herself, to kindle the ember of hope that had sprung up within her chest. The movement was slow, lumbering, and greatly aided by the tree, but it was standing nonetheless. She walked. Slowly, again, but walking all the same.

Conyeri walked out of the grove, pausing frequently to catch her breath. There was renewed purpose in her actions; she was hungry. After eating the grass in the immediate area around where she was propped up against the tree, she wanted meat and cooked food. The scenery became more like Duskwood as she descended, the howls of worgen and the skittering of spiders in the shadows always on the peripheral of Cony's thoughts, but she had priorities. The camp she had skirted around earlier came to mind, close enough. She worked her was at an agonizing pace through the trees and bushes until she had sight of it. Men were talking in hushed voices, their volume low and brows furrowed. A woman in leather armour came along the road from the right, shouting something. Conyeri was disturbed that to her, the words were garbled. She could hardly understand them.

The guards, or whatever they were, all ran off with the female, no doubt to some impending doom or something, leaving their camp guarded by a boy who could be barely older than Cony, sweat on his brow and a shield that probably weighed more than he did. Crates of food. A hot fire. Cony couldn't resist. She stumbled out of the bushes and approached the small roadside encampment.

"Who's there? Step out!" The boy said, his voice shaky. He looked at Cony as she approached. "Oh," he breathed out. "Can I help you?"

"Mmmm," she nodded, leaning on the fence. "I'm lossst."

He grabbed a map that was laid down on the flat of a barrel of water. It had a myriad of symbols covering it; marking sites of what Cony guessed was danger. He came up to the fence and turned her back to her to show her the map and effectively mark the way. He was really stupid.

"So, you just follow this road to get to Darkshire. It's pretty much the only place around-" she stuck a dagger in his back. "Oh."

He slumped to the floor. Cony moved around the fence, searching the food crates. Bread, bread, dried stuff, more bread. Why the hell wasn't there any meat here? They probably caught it fresh.

"Fuck," she cursed under her breath, eyes hungrily flitting to the body on the floor. "No." she told herself, wondering why even the thought had come to her. She settled with several loaves of bread and a skin of wine, which was all she could carry. She hoped the boy would recover.

She ate en route to wherever she was going, bread hungrily disappearing down her throat between gulps of wine. The road was easy to follow, and somewhere along the line there would be somewhere sheltered. Or meat. That would be best. A path led off to the right. She hesitated, but a gut feeling pulled her off the beaten track and down into a small clearing. Dark shapes lurked in the shadows, but there was a smell: roasting meat, somewhere. A small fire, crudely put together, was burning to ashes in the corner, left by someone who needed to get away quickly. A rabbit was burning on a spit. She rushed for it, tearing a leg off and feeling it go down, juices still dripping. Again, she tore, ravenously, reveling in the heat and the rich flavour.

A piercing howl came from behind her, and she ducked behind the fire, guarding her rabbit. A silly thing, really, but it was important that she owned something. One of the worgen had been ambling around the clearing, away from its pack, and had spotted her. On gangly but powerful limbs it loped up to the fire, cruel eyes slitting as it judged her, damp nose twitching. Then, it went down on his bowed back legs, almost in an apologetic movement, and slunk off, whining to itself.

"Oh-kayyy," she murmured to herself, confused but grateful. There was still more rabbit to be eaten. After finishing it off, her stomach full, she lay down by the small, dying fire, and slept again. Numbed sensation seeped into her body through her skin, bringing with it an idle, lurking suspicion that something was wrong. The worgen were silent through her sleep- and they were night creatures. Conyeri was deep in slumber when they lifted her up with stilted tenderness and silently ferried her from her bed into the small mine they had taken as their home.

Worgen looked at the passing procession with interest, but never moved to attack the vulnerable girl. She was laid in the furthest-back cavern of the mine, on soft leaves and hay. Her carriers laid down with her, sharing their warmth, insulating her against the jarring cold of early winter far better than the weak, dying fire ever could. Why they had done it was not the matter; it was that they had. The Worgen, the bloodthirsty beasts summoned from a world of eternal pain and suffering into Azeroth, those who preyed on weak townspeople and voraciously tore their prey limb from limb were the very same who now cuddled up to Conyeri, their broad chests expanding and contracting with measured breaths.

A smaller Worgen stepped from his skulking patrol into the cavern, suspicious smells borne on the whistling wind having reached his sensitive nose. He padded on four paws up to the sleepers with curiosity, seeing the little human girl in their midst. She didn't smell right, not like the rest of the weaklings that stepped into his territory. He scent was less, masked by the reek of infection that covered her skin, clinging to her flesh. Talavan, the Worgen in question, leaned closer to her, nudging the brown hair that fell over her neck off. He worried. There was a strange compulsion in him, like nothing he had ever felt before, to keep her safe. His pack was further moved by it, taking her into the heart of their nest.

His lupine form shivered with renewed purpose as his ears picked up the faint sound of battle ringing on the wind, coming from far outside the cave. The people were back, this time with more. They were trying to kill his kin, coming with knives and magic that had surprised the Worgen. He growled under his breath and loped out of the nest, his alpha instincts telling him to keep them from his inner sanctuary. As Talavan came to the mouth of the cave, a shout came from the group that pierced his delicately tuned hearing. He knew of their language, minimally, but they spoke so fast and so loudly! A burly one, face marked with war and sword in his grip, shouted at the others. "There it is! The monster, the abominable Gutspill! Kill it!"

Talavan growled and rushed at the man. He was no monster. He was the protector of his pack, no matter his small size. A shield came up to block his claw, and the warrior plunged the sword into his stomach. Howling with pain, he took a swipe and the man's head, clipping him as he twirled out of the way. Behind him, of diminutive stature, was a man with a thick brown beard and the stink of magic in him. His beady eyes focused hard on the warrior, and the wound on his temple began to knit itself together. The short man was a healer.

Using his powerful jaws, the worgen snapped at the warrior's hand, but with another thrust of the sword his head exploded in pain. Toppling backwards, he felt hot, sticky blood run down his face. He grimaced, but the duty he had to protect his pack came before his personal condition; he would fight until there was no breath left in his lungs or no blood in his body.

An arrow sliced into the fur of his back as he stood, coming from another short-human. His eyes went wide as he saw the sentries from his pack lying mutilated and silent on the grass behind him. The men had killed his friends, his allies, his pack. Talavan was the Alpha. The Alpha was responsible for his pack. He had failed them.

A cry of anguish burst from his throat as two more arrows found their mark, felling the worgen again. He felt the cool, damp Duskwood grass under his fur and accepted that this was his end. He had fought as well as he could for his time. There would be more of his kin coming, coming to escape the hell they had lived in before this. He feared for the sleeping ones in the mine. And the girl.

The warrior, eyes blazing with twisted righteousness, grinned at the fallen alpha before slicing his head clean off.

Howls echoed out from everywhere as Worgen felt their leader die, the powerful pack ties severed. Now was when a new alpha would be chosen, in the thick of battle. The group moved on, eager to continue ridding Duskwood of these aberrations of nature. Into the mine, they moved with a hushed quickness, picking the prowling worgen off where they met them. The light dimmed and the atmosphere hushed in a stark juxtaposition to the fury of bloodshed that the group had encountered on the way in. Small sounds filtered through the sleepy miasma that coated the inner sanctum of the Worgen. The warrior, much to his annoyance, was having trouble concentrating. He was only how noticing how the skin itched where the priest had many times re-knitted it. His armour was heavy, his hands rubbed raw from his swordplay. He was very tired. Really, really tired…

"Stay awake ye fool," whispered the priest, his hushed words reverberating through the mine. "It be a dark trick."

The warrior gripped his blade tightly again, concentrating on the thought of seeing his wife and daughter again tonight. They came upon the sight they had been hoping to see; the remained of the worgen, four or five of them, curled up on a nest of hay and leaves, sound asleep. The group was silhouetted against the lighter corridor they had come from, three blurs of black on cold blue stone. They had the complete upper hand here. The warrior was eager to get this over and done with.

""Old on a minute…" The hunter breathed. "Dun'ya feel bad 'bout not givn' 'em a chance?"

"What on earth are you talking about!" the warrior whispered, voice high with rage. "They are monsters!"

"They've ne'er bothered Darkshire." The priest said hesitantly. "Tho' I guess they did take this mine, an' th' orchard o'er there…"

"You aren't seriously considering letting them stay here? To breed and kill more people? By the Light!" He ended his sentence with a short acclamation, his eyes focusing on the sleeping worgen. "Look at that."

"Whut?" The hunter peered through the gloom with the aid of the warrior's outstretched arm. "By me beard. It's a girl."

"Living?" the dwarfs said in union, both uneasy at their discovery when the warrior nodded.

"She's breathing." He said softly. "A midnight snack?"

"Worgen dun't eat people. Sure, they rip 'em ta shreds, but they dun't eat 'em." The hunter's gloved hands nervously twirled his black mustache. "She be under their protection. Like a child o' their own. If I know beasties, which I do, they're sleepin' around her like a newborn, keepin' her warm."

"Then she's with them. An ally of my enemy is my enemy also." The warrior said shortly, raising his voice. He regretted it immediately when one of the worgen stirred, but it merely turned over and laid a protective arm over Conyeri, suddenly not so bloodthirsty to the hunter.

"She dun't smell right," he added, taking a nervous step closer. "I can smell so much worgen in here, but there's also somthin' else."

"Speaking in riddles and smelling her isn't getting me home for dinner," the warrior growled, stepping forward dominantly. "I say we take them, and check the girl at the end."

"That sounds right with me," the priest acquiesced, rubbing his hands together. "The boys'll start down the tavern without us, Gull. Let's get it goin'."

Having been outnumbered, Gull the hunter nodded and handled his bow nervously, wondering why he felt bad about doing this. A worgen was a worgen. He strung the bow, the creak of the wood sounding twice as loud and echoey as it should have in the nest. The warrior motioned to him and they both soundlessly padded further into the nest while the priest stayed back, whispering gibberish to himself that filled Gull with renewed strength.

One. The warrior held out his hand.

Two. His other.

Three. His sword raised, the warrior charged with impossible speed into the nest, hacking one of the worgen to pieces even before the others got their wits together. Gull let a flurry of arrows out on another, who promptly topped back down. The worgen came out of their nest, snarling, but one stayed behind, beside the miraculously still-sleeping girl's body, growling with his protective arm over her waist. He loosed more arrows, focusing his mana into the tips to make them fly true and fast. He wished briefly that his companion was present, but this was not the place for her. Duskwood deeply unsettled the lumbering bear.

Three worgen were down, two more to go, not counting the one guarding the girl. The warrior was spinning wildly, his sword slicing deftly through knotted worgen muscles and down to the bones. Another fell, and Gull took aim and put an arrow straight through the remaining one's chest. Followed by several harsh stabs and a small burst of almost blindingly holy light from the priest's hand, the worgen was most definitely dead.

They converged on the last one, guarding the girl, who whimpered and looked- if worgen had emotions- guiltily at the limp body under its paw. Self-preservation fought with the odd compulsion that the worgen felt for the girl, and in weakness, self-preservation won out, and the worgen leapt an impossible height over the warrior and was out of sight and reach in a second.

Cursing, the warrior decided against chasing it down. He slipped his bloody sword back in its scabbard and slotted his shield onto his pack, tentatively stepping over to where the mysterious girl lay, murmuring quietly in her sleep. He crouched down and recoiled.

"She smells like a dead body," he snarled, hand reaching for his sword hilt. "Why don't we just-"

"Yeh'd kill a girl jest because she smells dead? Shame on ye, Orenn." The healer chastised him. "We'll at least wake 'er up." He shuffled down to the nest, shaking Conyeri on the shoulder. "Wake up, girlie." Harder, this time, he shook her, her hair flopping over and away from her face. He grimaced as he took in her body.

"What?" Orenn the warrior said, nervously glancing over his shoulder. "Is she alive or not?"

"She could be. Or she could be already dead." He said darkly, running his practiced hands over the oozing tooth marks on her arm.

"Riddles, again!" the priest rolled his eyes.

"She may be undead. Infection runs deep in her blood. When -if- she wakes up, there's a large chance tha' the contamination has spread too far, an' that she'll un-die."

"Can ye heal 'er?" Gull asked softly, frowning as he said it. Why did he care, anyway?

"Far beyond me present abilities, but I dun't reckon she'd survive th' trip ta Stormwind."

Orenn spoke. "Is there a competent healer in Darkshire?" the priest considered it for a moment, running the citizens of the last bastion of human life that was Darkshire.

"Per'aps Madame Eva," he said, becoming more confident as he affirmed the conversation they had had about the potency of certain healing herbs. "Yeh, she could 'elp, 'specially with the girl's current condition, in which she's an expert."

"Hoist her on my back," Orenn took off his shield and pack. "Gull, you don't have a pack, take mine."

It took the party a couple of minutes to get the girl out of the hay and onto Orenn's brawny back. Once that had been done, they trekked out from the mine, leaving the dead worgen to rot behind them.

-

Sensations bombarded Conyeri, such that she couldn't get a complete thought together for long enough. Little whispers wiggled through her brain like maggots, icy cold and slimy, in a voice so sleek and suave that it seemed to know her. Know her like nobody ever did; know her hopes, her dreams.

_Soon, you're going to wake up, aren't you?_

Yes, she answered, relaxing into the familiarity of the voice. It held her like a mother did an infant, supporting her head and keeping her warm.

_What're you going to do then?_

I don't really know, now you ask. Maybe find some more food. Somewhere sheltered to sleep. A way to scrub my life clean of the filth on my soul. Yeh, that's a plan.

_Nah, that sucks. I mean, what is your life going to be about? If you're not going to 'change the Defias for the better' or whatever you were thinking anymore, then what is there to live for?_

Hmmm. Well, I'd like to stay alive. Death doesn't look very nice.

_You're scared of death?_

Who isn't?

_Let me rephrase. How do you know what death is like if you've never experienced it?_

Who are you?

_You._

No, you're not. Don't give me that line; I know myself and you're not me.

_I could be. You want a fresh start? A purpose? I can give that to you. It's your choice._

The tone of the voice shifted almost imperceptibly. It became soft and sultry, cooing and smooth as a spool of silk.

_Marisa didn't give you a choice, did she? Do you hate her? Does she deserve to live?_

No, but I'm never killing anyone, ever again. I can't handle it now, and I couldn't handle it again, no matter how much she deserved it.

_I can take your guilt away. I can rid you of your doubts and fears. You can exact the revenge you deserve and not have to take the blame. Wouldn't you like that?_

There was an echoing silence as Conyeri mulled that over. It sounded nice, but there were always repercussions involved. Someone had to take the sharp end of the stick. Nothing was free. She felt the voice follow all of her thoughts and wondered how long it had been listening. She wasn't mad, like Marisa- this type of thing had never happened before. She was unconscious, she knew, possibly comatose. Near death, even. This must be her way of reasoning with her life, trying to find a new track for it.

_Think of how much impression you could make on the world with more affluence. Nobody would be better than you; nobody would demand you looked up to him or her. You'd have no master but yourself… you could even have Geylan, if you wanted._

I don't 'want' Geylan. He's my friend.

_Tell yourself that enough times and you'll believe it._

I'm about to wake up, you know.

_I know. Answer me. Yes or no?_

Do I have to? Right now? Without time to know the catch?

_There isn't one. All you have to do is say yes, and your weakness will be gone._

Yes, then. I want to be strong. I want to make a difference.

Wait, no. No. No!

_Too late._

Pain spiked behind Conyeri's eyes and she screamed, a real, throaty scream that made her lungs vibrate as though she were singing opera. She scrabbled around, her sweaty fingers gripping onto something. Fear and pain clouded her perception and vision as sensation came back to her, the wind, and the smell of magic and hot coal. Heavy linen under her tight grip, she heaved herself up, twisting and writing as the feeling of helplessness crashed upon her and cast its queasy tendrils into her, groping for her life force like an addict for his fix. Cries came from around her, shrieks that pained her ears and echoed in her head as though someone had rung a church bell.

She cried and thrashed wildly, unable to put words together. Unable to think, only to feel. Pain as she fell of the table she had been laid on. Splinters of the hardwood floor on her bare back. Her eyes fluttered wildly, seeing and not seeing, blurs of shape and shadow melting into primary colours and pockets of stars that flew in the brown sky, fizzing as they went out. Hands pushed her down, and she shouted at them, for all they were was hands, not attached to a body, sporting multicoloured patches of colour that fit together in a haphazard jigsaw. He head burned behind her eyes, a torrent of nothing and everything traveling by caravan and by horse over the craggy land of her brain, their dry feet drumming as they trekked on, merrily laughing with each other.

"I said this would happen," Conyeri didn't understand the words. They came from an oak chair that perched atop a pine tree, swaying gaily. Something pulled her soul to all different sides at once, threatening to rip it. It was as though hands made from darkness were scrabbling to get the biggest piece. "Get it over with."

She howled and started crying, tears leaking down her cheeks in acidic rivulets that scarred her pretty face, waterfalls to the money spiders that skittered away from her. The things spoke in a langue she didn't understand, it frustrated her. She shouted at them to be quiet, and they did. A strange silence fell over her as though condensed into a single voice, smiling and encouraging.

"Kill them."

"B-but… why? Who?" her eyes flickered to the empty room, bar the hands that held her down. "Why?"

"Because I said so." The voice said, anger edging into its coolness. "And you do what I say."

She laughed. "Um, noooooo. Why would I?" It was funny. Something reminded her of something else which made her think about something. The process was fascinating.

"You _agreed_ to!" the voice growled. "You said yes!"

"Then I said no. Your ears don't work so well."

"She's talking gibberish to herself."

"Do it!"

"Nah…" she smiled. "Um, thank you, though. My dad told me to be polite to people. Thank you very much."

"Is she thanking me?"

"Dunno."

"I did save her life. I'd thanking myself for that."

"Just a moment ago you were going to kill her." There was something going wrong. The stars dulled and became yellow, lighting the brown sky in a gloom that spread from the peripheral of Conyeri's vision to encompass it. The tree went away. Why had it been there in the first place? The chair had a man in it. A short man. And an old woman was over her. The hands had grown. They were hairy, and connected to arms. Oh, how confusing it was!

"I don't even want to think of what this one's been through. Why, if she were my own child…" the old woman shivered, her wrinkled face scrunching up. "Poor thing…"

"She's looking at you," the arms said, expanding into a chest and a head. "I think she understands."

Conyeri most certainly did. She felt offended that he wouldn't think she was intelligent enough to. Never had she been the scholarly type, but her father had always said…

Oh.

Ohhhh.

And everything came back. Including who she was and how she got here.

"Holy…" she looked down at herself. She was a mess of stitches and smelled like a herb shop was growing somewhere on her. She was also naked, save a cotton wrap around her crotch. Instinct hand a hand up and around her breasts before anything else. The old woman laughed.

"At least she has priorities," she smiled softly. "You can call me Eva, miss…?"

"Con-" alarm caught her mid-sentence. There was an investigation into her whereabouts. They would either take her to Stormwind to be killed or kill her on the spot. "Connaly, uh," her mind shifted through surnames. Du'Paige was out, as was Shaw, Stonefist, and DeHayersae… but why go for surnames? First names worked as well. "Harrman. Connaly Harrman." She assured her pseudonym in her mind.

"I'd like to know what you were doing half-dead and sleeping with a pack of Worgen, but you're in no health to tell me at the minute." She briskly took out rolls of bandages. "I need to change them again. Your wounds don't respond to healing magic, like that of the nice dwarf who brought you back with his friends, so I've had to resort back to herbs. Old-person stuff." She smiled and the corner of her eyes wrinkled. Conyeri thought it would have been nice to have a grandmother or a grandfather. "You might have woken the little ones up."

There were kids? Great. Conyeri hadn't been around children for ages… not since she was that age herself. She stayed as still as she could as Eva bandaged her wounds. They were ugly, sickly things, seeping and dirty. Why had she not been in the right mind to seek attention for them earlier? All she remembered was being hungry. So very hungry. Even famished enough to consider eating that young guard at the roadside camp. She shuttered at even the notion that she had though of cannibalizing someone. How close she had brushed with death, and indeed undeath. What had compelled her to say yes to the voice? The little, beguiling voice that promised her so much.

"Thank you," she said quietly, her throat tired from screaming and burned from, well, burned rabbit. "Can you… tell me what happened?"

"No," she said tiredly, wringing out a dirty cloth and wetting it again in clean water, dabbing it onto Conyeri's wounds. "But Orenn and the Steelbeard brothers can. The former is with his family, and the latter are probably drunk off their faces by now."

"Ah," the girl noted, grimacing as the cloth touched severed flesh. Eva eyed her with a pitiful but angry gaze.

"Girl your age shouldn't be out there." She chastised. "What on earth were you thinking?"

"I was running away," she truthfully said. "Not from my home, though. I ran into ghouls. I only just got away." she swallowed painfully. "Can I have some water?"

Eva nodded and went over to the small stove, tapping a keg beside it. Clear water flowed out and into the glass she had taken from a low cupboard. She offered it to Cony, who let the blissfully cold liquid slowly slide down her throat before continuing. Her memories were hazy. "I was in a place for ages. Under a tree. Uh, a place above the camp- with the purple leaves?" Eva nodded, eyes thoughtful. "Eventually, I left, and found food by the worgen place. I fell asleep. I remember nothing since."

"You left a good chunk out of that," the old woman accused, but she didn't prompt Cony to fill the gaps in. "But I know."

Conyeri froze as the woman looked at her mischievously, fingers caressing a glass orb on a small table behind her. "You did the right thing, Conyeri."

"Why ask my name if you knew it?" she inched backwards, muscles knotting painfully.

"To see if you would lie or not." Eva shrugged. "I don't think any less of you for it. There is untrustworthy, and then there is sensible. Do you know that your bounty has been upped to 750 gold pieces?"

"No," she whistled. That much money was enough for some serious spending. A house, food for one, maybe two years… just for her? Someone must really hate her.

"It's not for dead or alive. It's recovery. Baros wants to thank you personally for killing his greatest rival."

"I didn't kill my dad," she said awkwardly. Eva smiled, her long fingers stroking the ball, in which thick smoke seemed to be pulled to her fingertips. Conyeri, watching it in mild interest, thought she saw a shape form, but blinked and it was gone. It gave her an uneasy feeling: someone she didn't know could find out so much about her life.

"But you did then sleep with the woman who had him killed," Eva pointed out, refilling the empty water glass Conyeri had placed carefully back on the table. "The youth of today…"

"It wasn't voluntary," anger bubbled up within Conyeri, bringing back flashes of her escape from camp RUTN. Oh gods, Geylan would be wondering where she was. And Dez and Harrman, and Jack. Alt would tell Marisa that she had escaped. She quelled it hastily, knowing it had got her in this mess to begin with, but it leaked out into a scowl. "Why not turn me in?"

"You're interesting, my dear," she offered the refilled glass to Conyeri, who took it in shaky hands. "Orenn, bless him, told me how he found you- not in detail mind you, but enough. In a worgen nest, and still in one piece. That is most perplexing."

"When I was taking the rabbit…" Conyeri's thoughts opened up, bringing back details that she perhaps could have done without. "One of them came for me, but it stopped. It… it _apologized_ to me, then left me alone."

"The pack were protecting you," Eva pulled out a chair, the scraping sound it made on the wooden floor jarring Conyeri's hearing. "Why? You aren't a worgen. Why the compulsion? Why only to you?"

"I don't know," she said exasperatedly, chugging down the water and realizing that she was very hungry. "Can I have something to eat?" she said loudly, realizing how rude she sounded and not really caring. She'd been to hell and back and by the Light was she going to get what _she _wanted, just for today. Not what Marisa wanted, or what the Defias wanted, or even what Geylan or her friends wanted. Today was Conyeri day.

Eva quirked an eyebrow. "You'd make this old lady get back on her feet?"

"I can't exactly get back on mine," she retorted, gesturing with the hand that held the glass to her battered body. "Weren't there other people in here?"

"Two, Orenn and Thursly, but they left immediately after you were subdued."

"Oh." She said shortly. "What am I going to do now?"

"Well, I'm going to make soup, and you're going to decide what to do with yourself."

"Why do I have to decide?" she asked wearily, laying her head back on the floor, from which she hadn't moved since she'd fallen.

"I thought you hated people deciding for you." Eva said slyly as she pulled herself from the chair and over to the cupboards. "And don't ask me how I know that."

Conyeri stayed silent, brooding over that. Indeed, people made decisions for her, and often they were ones, in retrospect, that were bad. They didn't take her own self into account. This method was, however, easier by far for her. She could blame other people when things went wrong because of the decisions they had made. She didn't have to take the time to analyze each fork in the path before she took it. Damn, Conyeri realized- she was weak. A real pushover.

"Had any epiphanies yet?" Eva asked from where she was boiling water in a heavily blackened pot.

"Yes," she said softly, wanting to sit up. She did, though it hurt in all the wrong places. Maneuvering herself up into the chair Eva had vacated moments earlier; she leaned back in it and closed her eyes. These sorts of thing had to happen to _her_, didn't they?

"Don't stress those stitches too much," the older woman warned. "The ghost hair thread is wonderful, but if you pull it the wrong way it doesn't bunch up and stick into the wound." Ghost hair? Gods, this place was full to the brim with the undead.

"Can I have some clothes?" she asked, ashamed that only now she was feeling uncomfortable.

"All your Defias-issue ones were burnt, my dear. They were heavily infected with the same thing that nearly killed you."

"I'm not dead." She said to herself, feeling so scared that she had actually come so close to the end. "But it wouldn't have been the end, would it?"

"You said that out loud."

"I would have turned undead. The voice would control me like it said… I would have killed you when it asked."

Eva stiffened mid-stir. "Voice?"

"Um, when I was unconscious, a voice talked to me. Promised me some things. I said yes to it. But then no. I let it make the decision for me again…"

"You said yes? But that means that you're… she looked down at Cony. "Take your pulse for me." She did. Her heart beat steadily, and she counted for a minute.

"Sixty-five beats in a minute," she told the woman. "What did you expect?"

"That there would be no beats. You said yes to the Lich King, Conyeri. How you rescinded your agreement I have no idea, but thank the Light that you managed it, or I would be burying your instead of cooking your soup."

"The Lich King?" Cony paled. "Shit."

"Language," she said tiredly, adding some salt to the soup. "Go taken something from that dressers behind you- it has some off-shoots from my daughter inside. They should fit okay."

Conyeri eyed the polished dresser and carefully opened the top draw, her fingers coming off dusty. Eva's daughter must have left long ago, and she silently thanked her, wherever she was, for borrowing her clothes and her mother. Laid with startling neatness were dresses, soft to the touch and exquisitely patterned. Offshoots, Eva had said? No girl would leave home without these; they wee far to expensive and beautiful. Conyeri tentatively ran her hand over a deep blue and purple robe, marveling in the silver thread that wound around the cuffs.

"Take one. She doesn't want or need them any more." Eva said darkly from the stove, leaving Cony to wonder what had become of the old woman's daughter. Was she dead? Did she run away? "She was the most beautiful girl in all Duskwood."

"Her dresses are… amazing," she pulled the one with the silver stitching out and looked at Eva to seek her approval. She felt to horrible, taking someone else's belongings, and the memories connected with them.

"I sewed them," Eva said, setting the ladle down. "She doesn't need them now." Curiosity rose within Conyeri, but this was not the time to ask questions, especially seeing Eva slip into a strange melancholy. "My Mary didn't deserve her fate."

Cony fingered the sleeves of the robe and slipped it on, feeling as though a mantle of memories and expectation had fallen upon her along with it. The robe was a little too big for her at the hips and bust, obviously belonging to a woman as opposed to a girl, but other than that it was the right height for her. It has been far too long since she had worn anything that carried a semblance of girlishness, or indeed seen any of the Defias do so. Shirts, breeches, leather armour- none of it was modified based on gender. Now, she felt softer, almost more vulnerable, like the girl she would have been if all of this had never happened.

"You look like her," Eva said in the silence, her hand gripping the crystal ball in habit. "By the Light, I thought I'd gotten over all of this." She wiped a tear from her wise eyes and turned back to the simmering soup. "It'll be ready in a couple of minutes if you want to freshen up. God knows how long it's been since you had a proper bath."

"Madame Eva, I'm sorry…" she started, but the woman brought a hand up to stop her.

"Not your fault, my dear." A clattering and an infantile shout came from upstairs. Eva sighed good-naturedly. "They've smelt the soup, it seems."

"Your children?"

"Grandchildren." She corrected. "Mary is in… no state to take care of them."

Two pattering sets of feet came down the stairs, for a moment giving Conyeri a horrible flashback of the night her own home was ransacked, the sound of shoes on wood. Into view came two children, a girl and a boy, who were skipping down the stairs until they saw Conyeri next to their table. They froze, eyes wide with confusion.

"Grandma?" the girl asked, standing a good three inches over the boy. She looked the older of the two.

"Yes, Alyssa?" Eva asked, doling out the soup into four bowls, having had the forethought to cook more if the children came down.

Alyssa blanched when Conyeri smiled, or tried to in the current state she was in, at her. "Who is she?"

"This is Conyeri. She just nearly died, have the good manners to greet her," Eva was a strict grandmother, it seemed. Conyeri felt an uneasy twinge at the use of her real name, but what would children know of death warrants?

"The same Conyeri wanted alive for seven-hundred-fifty gold?" Alyssa asked, narrowing her eyes. She hadn't missed a beat. Gods, what had happened that made these children so suspicious at such a young age? Alyssa could be no older than ten, the little boy six or seven.

"Yes." Eva answered simply, laying the bowls on the table along with four spoons. Conyeri sat down and looked around the table as the children and Eva did the same, hesitating as she went to pick up her spoon.

"Light, fill us with your strength and give us hope in these troubled times. Help us to life the veil of darkness over our home and endeavor, with us, to create a bright and joyful future. This we pray."

"This we pray."

They were saying their prayers. Conyeri's family had never done that, but she could see the appeal of it. Something to hope and strive towards. The prayer though… it made her realize what kind of life people lived out here. Westfall was dangerous, for sure, with prowling beats and golems clogging up the farmsteads, but nothing like the omnipresent drape of malignance that blanketed Duskwood in its foggy darkness. The dead would not rest here, and so neither did the living, always looking over their shoulder. What a damnable existence.

The children were tucking into their soup, so Conyeri quietly did the same. She felt odd, like she was looking at a family painting from the outside. She didn't belong here, and the children knew it.

"She looks like the old pictures of mummy." The boy said suddenly, and Conyeri realized eh had been staring at her for a good minute.

"Coincidence," Eva stated simply, spooning the hot soup- chicken, Conyeri guessed- into her mouth. "She won't be here for much longer, Loghan, don't worry."

She wouldn't? That meant that Cony would have to move on again. She honestly had no idea where she would go. Not everyone was as enigmatic as Eva, willing to look past her tattoo and state to the person she was a couple of months ago. "Where will I go?"

"I can get you out of Darkshire unseen, but after than you're on your own. I can give you advice, but I don't know everything about you. In the end, you take your own road."

She took another gulp of the soup, just realizing it wad delicious and salty, the burnt rabbit and stale bread and grass she had been eating for the last week being pushed out of her thoughts in favour of the rich, creamy liquid that glided down her throat.

"The way I see it, you have three choices." Eva began. "First, you can go back to the Defias. If you didn't know, they took over Westfall and declared it their state two days ago. In the chaos, anyone could have slipped by or been taken and then escaped or such. You'd be welcomed back, if that's what you wanted. I wouldn't think any less of you for returning. Second, You find somewhere entirely neutral. The Venture Co., I believe, deals with the Defias. They're in Stranglethorn, just south of Duskwood. I don't know what you'd be to them, to be honest, but you can bet that Booty Bay won't be glad to see you."

"Last, you can hand yourself in to Stormwind. Dealing with the Defias has never been easy. You'd be put in the Stockade, which is under Defias control, though I don't know how well you'd fare. The death sentence would most likely be ignored."

"It won't. Alexton hated my father and he hates me too. I'd probably just be executed on the spot."

"True," she smiled. "But it's up to your conscience. Hand yourself in or go back to the Defias and continue the life you were living. Killing, stealing, hurting people. It's your choice."

Conyeri's stomach dropped a mile. When she said it like that, the Defias seemed worse. But she didn't want to die, again, in front of people who hated her, called her a traitor. Maybe some would even pity her. That would possibly be worse.

"There is… one other thing." Eva said hesitantly. "A hundred times as dangerous as the others."

She knew how to build up a recommendation, thought Conyeri dryly. Give them three to choose from, none that seemed particularly attractive, and then drop the one you personally think they should do. "What?"

"I can…" she looked Conyeri over with an eyes for detail. "You may look girlish, but that can be easily remedied. They're looking for a girl that fits your description… and they're busy with the recent takeover to care who goes in and out of Stormwind…"

"You want me to go to _Stormwind_!?" she said loudly. "Are you mad?"

"Not as yourself. As a boy. You can get a job that requires heavy labour or something. Wear your gloves; rub your hands in coal dust. They'll be as black as that cog. You can get a job on a caravan train or something out of the city. Far away."

"Is there anyone who could remove it?" she wondered aloud, touching the tattoo Marisa had magically etched into her skin. Eva shook her head.

"That curse is as powerful as they come. Can only be broken by the caster."

"Damn," she said, finishing the soup. "You did say it was the least safe."

"It is," she answered with a shrug. "But it's within my skills to make you a boy everything but physically. And, in a way, I owe it to you."

"Why? You've saved me, fed me, clothed me… I'm the one who owes you, Madame Eva." She said in common sense. "I can't pay you back for any of this."

The old woman smiled like a fox, showing yellowing teeth. "There you are wrong, my dear. If you were to do one thing for me, I'd call it all null and void." Conyeri listened closer, aware of the children silently finishing their meals. "I want you to talk to my daughter."

-

"Geylan-"

"That's Master Shaw to you," He snidely cut Dez off mid-sentence, his nose stuck into a sheaf of reports from all the towns and cities within plausible traveling distance. He was so far at Booty Bay, and as they were arranged alphabetically, not very far into his task.

"Listen 'ere, _Master _Shaw_. _I'm eight years older than you, no matter 'ow much above me ya are in the Defias. I know what's goin' on, an' what ya can't see through your emotional crap." Dez snatched the papers from his hand. Geylan, lightning-quick, tried to snatch it back, but Dez was taller than him and he was sitting down. "Listen, Shaw."

Harrman stood back, watching them. He was around the same age as Geylan, but he didn't have any of the presence Dez commanded with his brawny chest and big fists. Content to only interject if things got bad, he stayed at the entrance to the cubby.

"If you'll see 'er again, it's because of 'er, not you. If she comes back, it'll be by her own choice-"

"She won't! She's dead!" he cried angrily, his eyes red-rimmed from all the crying he'd been doing over his own failings. "She'd dead!"

"You know that about as well as you know Harrman's sister," Dez retorted, stuffing the papers into a pocket of his trousers. "So whut, she went into the catacombs? She can stealth. She's fast. The Conyeri we're talkin' 'bout would fight it out, and ya know it. Sayin' she's dead just gives you an excuse te mope."

"I'm not moping." He moped, running his hand through his hair for the millionth time that morning. "I'm being realistic."

"Pessimistic," Harrman corrected, earning a glare that would melt rock. He shrugged it off and returned to silence.

"Ya know as well as me whut Marisa was doin' te her, Geylan. 'Er parents, 'er life… they were taken from 'er by us. Well, not us personally, but the Defias, and then she had to join it? I'd want to run away, too."

"But…" Geylan squeezed his eyes shut and winced as they burned, having been open too long and reading small print. "She seemed happy."

"Marisa _seems_ sane when ya look at 'er, but she ain't. Same, I guess, goes fer Cony." Dez put a heavy hand on Geylan's shoulder. "It ain't yer fault, ya know."

"Damn well feels like it," he growled. "You're telling me to just sit back and wait until she comes back?"

"Kinda," he admitted. "Look, Geylan, all of us care 'bout 'er, an' I know ya'd do everythin' that ya could te help, but in the end, she's her and she's been really hurt in the last couple of months. She cares fer you, and us, but I dunno if that nem… nef…"

"Negates," Harrman offered, and Dez nodded.

"Negates all the shit she's had. Look at it from 'er perspective."

Geylan didn't reply: he was thinking on Dez's words. Gods, he'd been stupid. To think that she'd stay because of him after everything that had happened. Sarah, Marisa, this whole new life that she'd been pushed into. Geylan had been so glad that he'd found someone like him, someone with sharp wit and lust for life- not that Dez and Harrman weren't his friends too, but they weren't on the same level. There weren't those instant bonds, that trust. The trust he'd thought would win over her doubt.

"I'm an idiot, aren't I?" he said quietly.

"An earnest idiot," Harrman came off the wall, his boots squeaking as he changed his centre of weight. "But an idiot nonetheless."

"Don't rub it in," Geylan sighed. "So I just go with it? Act like she never existed?"

"No," the other two said in unison. They looked at each other and Harrman continued. "Remember her and hope she comes back. If not, keep the hope up. Then, when you're older and have more lease on your actions, go after her if you still want to."

"This is getting' awful sentimental," Dez said gruffly, but he was smiling under his light beard. "C'mon Harr, I reckon we got some sense into him."

"All before lunch," Harrman grinned. "Are you coming with us? Cookie is making that goulash you like."

"No, thanks. I need to tidy this mess up," Geylan offered meekly, gesturing to the lack of discernable bed or floor in his cubby, so covered as it was by clothes and papers and knotted dried herbs and all sorts.

"Your loss," Dez shrugged and left the cubby, Harrman is tow. The youngest Shaw was left by himself, with the papers Dez had dropped by his feet on the way out. Reports from everywhere that she could have gone. Maybe Geylan couldn't go looking for her, but that didn't mean he couldn't check. Just to see.

Corin's Crossing. Useless, it was up in the Plaguelands. She couldn't be there; a gryphon cost an arm and a leg and would take at least a week. D… Darkshire. More Defias activity, ghouls, worgen, etc etc. Lake Everstill, Elwyn in general, Fargodeep mine… none of it told him anything. Frustrated, he set the papers down and started tidying his cubby, sweeping papers to the side and seeing the bed Conyeri had slept on the week before, while Marisa was away doing other things. He frowned. Marisa. How he hated that self-indulgent, childish woman. How she'd ruined things for so many people just because she had not a semblance of restraint in her body.

He contemplated bringing the mattress back to the stores and getting his money back, but in the end he kept it there. It smelled like Conyeri. Gods, he was such a sap. Once his room had some floor space again, he decided to brew some poisons. He grabbed his favourite book and set out towards the labs, meeting people on the way who gave him a hello or a salute. The mood was generally dour underground since the takeover, as less people chose to live down here now that they could go on the surface safely, and those that did were packing up anyway. Camp RUTN was no longer right under their noses, because there was no them. Was there a point in hiding when you could be outside?

Not really, but Geylan was attached to the camp. He liked Cookie's food and the sulphurous baths and the comforting stone walls around him. Adaptivity was never one of his strongest qualities. He came to the labs, where goblins hustled and bustled, their excitement palpable. Goblins were rarely so outwardly cheery, so he asked one of them what was going on.

"You don't know?" the little green creature asked incredulously while he handled a bag full of bolts onto a processing line. "We've just been given the go-ahead for the next project."

"There's a new one, already?" Project Tinker was only just setting up. Damn, the Defias moved quickly.

"We're making full use of the face we have an overland base of operations. Project Overhead. We're building a group of zeppelins to act as a permanent settlement. Untouchable, an impervious base of Defias operations." The little man replied, his eyes gleaming. Geylan was shocked. That was a big thing to move on to, from the takeover of a state that pretty much belonged to them anyway. The possibilities, though… It was like that place in the Plaguelands, the one spoken of in whispers. Naxxramas, floating in the sky. Or Archerus, the Ebon Hold. The Defias wanted their own piece of the sky. The goblin had long since scuffled off, leaving Geylan looking stupid and standing by himself.

Quickly moving to the more apothecarial side of the lab, he found an empty table and began to gather his ingredients, working methodically, keeping his mind clear of all else. The poison he was going to make was slow-acting, attacking DNA cells and changing the structure of the chromosomes. The mutated genes were then produced in all the new cells the body created, and the old cells thought them invaders and attacked them, the body effectively destroying itself. It had been a long time since he had made it, not really having much need for slow-acting poisons, but he liked to test himself. This one was particularly tricky.

"There you are, Master Shaw," came a voice from behind him that he didn't want to hear, accompanied by clanking. He was weighing out swiftthistle dust, but he abandoned it and saluted.

"Miss Du'Paige." He said stiffly, through gritted teeth. He wanted to tear her head off right now. It had been by her selfishness that Conyeri had lost her parents, her pride, and her choice.

"I have a message for you." She handed him a small envelope. Message? What was she talking about? Nobody ever sent him mail. Who could have sent him something? Conyeri? He opened it excitedly, not trusting himself with the patience to wait. The letter was inked in scratchy handwriting that definitely didn't belong to Conyeri. He deflated, hopes dashed, but read the letter anyway.

_Dearest cousin,_

_I thought to write to you on the subject of my good luck, for you know it is not often that I have it. My employer, the noble gentleman that he is, was speaking with someone we both know, though not as well as your father, for they indeed spent much time isolated together previously. In their conversation, it came to pass that there was a job opening under this gentleman's employ, and to my great surprise, it was offered unto me! How astonished I was I cannot convey to you in words alone._

_The job description is somewhat interesting, I must say. I shall be employed to the very house that your dearest father cultivated before his death at the hands of those cruel mercenaries. There, I will be attempting to befriend the young men and women who study the arts of the Light, to learn what direction that the Stewardess is taking them in. My employer, as you know, has vested interest in the training of those on the noble path. I shall be reporting back to my new employer on my findings._

_I must admit, this job has come as a great surprise, but at the right time. Perhaps my family, and by extension, yours, will benefit from the profit it garners._

_How is dearest Claudia fairing? She must be heavy with child by now. How I wish I could visit._

_Yours,_

_Paulina._

Geylan stared at the letter. "Why in hell is it addressed to me?"

"It was addressed to the residence we registered under the name Daniel Howarth, which is a pseudonym you used to go by last spring, when you were posing as that merchant in Goldshire. We use it as a safehouse for contacts to send letters to, but as it was addressed straight to you, I thought it might be from someone you know. Obviously not." She snatched the letter back. "I don't understand it, but one of the coders will. Whoever wrote it must have been under real scrutiny to send such a heavily encrypted message."

"Then get it to a coder. I'm mixing poisons," he tried to keep irritation out of his voice, but failed miserably. Marisa just really pissed him off.

"That's not the only reason I'm here," she said, tucking the letter into her belt. "We have a job for you and your trainee friends. Long-term."

Long-term, translated as 'we want to get you out of the way for a while'. And the fact that Dez and Harrman (who he considered his 'trainee friends'. Maybe Jack, too) were coming with him made it more obvious. "Where is it?"

"Up north," she said vaguely. "Very north."

"Do I get a briefing or anything?" he asked, tipping the swiftthistle into one of the larger mixing bowls, which held most of the ingredients he was using.

"Marzon is briefing you. Meet him in his classroom tomorrow, ready to leave. Despite what you think, we're not getting rid of you. The Syndicate has been brash of late, and we're wondering what they're up to- they're expanding from Strahnbrad up into Silverpine Forest, and that's dangerously near the Undercity. They may hate the horde, but that doesn't stop them allying with the more dangerous things around there. Potentially, they could expand and we'd meet in the middle, so to speak."

"So you're sending me to spy on the Syndicate?" he said skeptically, pouring diluted sticky green sap into his potion, which bound his ingredients together before he put the finishing touch to it.

"Essentially." She admitted. "But it is important, and you're the best person we have for this kind of thing."

"Why not send Nightly?" he said snidely.

"Nightly's an idiot. He's got an ego the size of Stormwind. He couldn't stop himself going at one of the Syndicate, and that's exactly what we're _not_ doing up there." She replied, idly brushing some dust off her shirt. Alt stood silent beside her, eyes roaming the room behind them and Geylan's poison in the making with mild interest.

"I agree there," he said. "I'll see Marzy tomorrow, and bring Dez and Harrman."

"Good boy," she cooed mockingly, turning on the ball of her foot and walking off, Alt trailing behind her.

Geylan sighed, hand on his hip. He guessed another mission would be good for him, but not half as fun without Conyeri there with him. He'd like to see Alterac or Silverpine, though- he'd never been that far north before. Dez and Harrman could use the field experience, also.

He dumped the last ingredient in and stirred, smiling as the liquid darkened to a tar black. He scraped it all up into a vial and corked it, feeling pleased with himself and empty at the same time.

Life would go on.

-

A/N: 50k :) It's getting there. I apolgise that this chapter had rather a lot of dialogue in it, but I hope it facilitated Conyeri's thought progression from her moment of weakness. We all have them, and I would be tempted if I was offered what she was. Nobody is perfect. Now, I'll be shifting into the next arc, but don't worry, this isn't the last you'll see of the gang together.

~Emmy


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry for the long delay, have been on holiday. Rain, rain and Flopper the Rabbit. Not cool.

The Brotherhood

Chapter 6

The staff was collapsible, lightweight and inconspicuous, but Marisa hated it nonetheless. Staves were the stereotype of mages- weak, frail mages, who sat dithering with portals and the like instead of using their power for the betterment of their allies. It reminded her that though she could do a great deal of damage with the sword belted to her hip, she would always come in second to those born with physical prowess. The rod was made of copper, a suitable conduit for magic, though poor at storing it, which was why most magi preferred wood with a crystal as a focus.

The Westfall earth hummed beneath her feet, distant tremors of the foundries that banged and scraped away, toiling to create the great Defias Zeppelin. There was a sick delight rising within her, urged to the surface as it was with minimal stimulation. It was just how she was, how she was wired. Complete lack of self-restraint made for a dangerous and unpredictable enemy.

She came to a stop as a gust of wind stirred the blood-red remnants of the soil, winding into a small twister, stinging her eyes beneath the heavy hide of her cloak. The sun, a boiling orb of grinning malice, shone down onto the caked earth, scalding the last vestiges of plant life that clung to the shady insides of the cracks that ran through the terrain, granting her passage. Over a mirage-blurred hill, she came upon her destination and smiled to herself, letting her lips curl into a sneer of disdain as she remembered the last time she was here.

Crops lay untilled, wild grasses choking the hops, the pervading air of death about the place, epitomized as it was by the dark outline of the farmhouse on the horizon, standing stark black in the reddish haze. Tentatively, feeling as though she was violating something, Marisa skirted around the field and into the residence, taking in the sight, sober this time. Not that she had been drinking before her band had destroyed the DeHayersae stead, but the sheer thrill of dominance that the girl had given her has clouded her mind, making her decisions for her. She remembered the muffled sobs coming from Conyeri as she had played her fingers, ghosts, over the exposed flesh of her shoulder, burning a trail of anguish and wanton desire down into her, an unseen scar that would never heal.

Gods, she got off on it.

"You left…" she muttered, running her hands over the ransacked chest of drawers, feeling the layer of dust that had since settled. Removing her hand, she walked upstairs quietly, remembering how the stairs had creaked that night as her men had trampled down them, and how she had lazily leant against the wall and waited for the pretty girl to come out of her room. She shook her head, blonde hair falling from the loose ponytail it was hastily put up in earlier.

She began rifling through the drawers, looking for something. Something with which she could cast both of the curses she wanted to. A hairbrush- good, but not perfect. She tucked it into her belt and moved down a drawer, pulling the soft wood out and rifling through the clothes. There, her eyes easily spotted a compartment, cut into the back. She removed the drawer and leaned in, prizing the door from the little box, only two or three inches square. The sense of foreboding increased. Whatever was in her certainly did not belong to Conyeri, and Marisa doubted she had ever known about it, or if she had, hadn't sought to find out. The compartment hadn't been opened for ten years or more.

From it, she pulled a small box, plain and made with odd, silver wood, inlaid with a single symbol, which she didn't recognize. It wasn't common, that was for sure. Curious, she opened the box and gasped slightly. It was a brooch, sparkling and clean even through the years when dust had ravaged the box. It was in the shape of a crescent moon, beautifully embellished with intertwining loops of what could be gold, but the metal felt foreign in her hands. Holding it, Marisa felt something shift within her- something subconscious before, now brought just close enough to notice, just too far away to put a finger on.

She switched her sight into the magical spectrum, expecting to see the artifact as the dazzling glow of swirling power. Instead, it remained as it was, cool and empty in her hands. Yet she felt magic from it. Radiating in soft pulses… the wooden box must be stopping it, at least a bit, because she did not feel it the night she had ransacked the house. Uneasy, she slipped it back in the box and put it into her satchel, thinking to find out more about it before she let it radiate its effect. The box would absorb some, yes, but Cony had slept in this room nearly seventeen years. That thing must have affected her so. Why did the DeHayersae family have such a thing, anyway?

She let the questions fall from her mind and onto more mundane things, like the two curses she was going to cast using Cony's hair as a reagent. The first, a self-cast, would change her appearance completely, to that of someone Conyeri had never seen. The second would do two things: place a magical marker on Conyeri that would shine like a beacon to Marisa if she got within ten miles of her, and would reveal the trail she was making, like a dog would follow a scent. Both would help her in what she was about to do. And both were black.

Being third in command of the Defias, she had expectations, duties, left to her when her father had died. She needed the Defias; they provided her home, her job, the food on her table, but she also needed to do this. Something was tugging at her, subtly, telling her to go north. Go north and wait, and though it was silly, she really felt compelled to. Cony was north, she knew instinctively, and she wanted Cony. A sick, warped and self-harming lust-turned-love that she harbored for the girl was eating up her inside, taking up her waking hours and sleeping minutes. Her habits, while uncouth, could no longer sustain her. Magic, sex, dominance- she needed those, but not as much as she needed to go north.

Pulling the stave to its full length, she twirled it idly in her long fingers a couple of times before setting it against the wall. From her satchel, she pulled three items: A black piece of chalk, a small bowl and a bottle of water. It reminded her that though she was a mage, this was a black curse- and black curses couldn't be done without sacrifice. Mages sacrificed mana for their spells, easily disposable as it was, and quick to replenish, too, but black magic wouldn't take just mana. She shivered slightly as she set the satchel down and walked to the clear space in the centre of Cony's room. It was deathly quiet, not even the cawing of crows or other carrion birds outside.

Carefully extracting Cony's hair from the brush, she began to braid it meticulously, until it was a thin string winding twice her height. Then, she wound it around her stave, her fingers pausing occasionally to check she'd done the knots right. With the staff finished, she brought it to the centre of the room, where she etched some simple runes in the black chalk onto the floor. After the first couple of years of training, mages didn't need runes at all when they cast complicated spells, but it helped Marisa as she didn't need the extra bother of holding runes in her head while casting. Finally, the bowl was filled with the water and placed just outside the casting area. She'd have to clean her hands in it pretty speedily afterwards to offset the repercussions of not using the proper sacrifice, though she could have.

The proper sacrifice being the blood of a virgin, and Marisa, without a shred of guilt, was not one. She doubted any of the Defias were, and there were no farmsteads with young daughters or sons around anymore for her to find one on. So, she was substituting it with her own blood, which would work, but only for the duration of the casting. Afterwards, she wouldn't be caught by the magic having the un-virgin blood, else it would kill her, and so she had to wash it completely off.

Ready, she stepped into the casting area and immediately the runes lit up a sickly red colour, protesting at their use in black magic, but they held. She held the stave out in from of her and concentrated, feeling Cony's aura emanate from the hair, though very thin it was. The reason that this appearance-changer was black was that it wasn't just an illusion. It would really change her body into a man or woman Cony didn't know. She felt the tendrils of magic grip at her and welcomed them, letting them suffuse her and expand beneath her skin, feeling light-headed. Snapping back on task, she coerced the magic into the use she needed, not the fix she desired. It was hard, but not impossible.

She gritted her teeth as the magic responded, and she felt her skin tightening, her bones crunching and elongating, her jaw clicking into place. Though not the most pleasant of feelings, it wasn't half as painful as some things she had done before- transforming into animals was incredibly hard, as that branch of magic was left for druids most. Marisa had, a few years ago, spend two weeks as a giant eagle with one human foot. As abruptly as it had begun, the magic stopped and she was left standing there, reeling.

Without time to bother checking what she looked like, she now concentrated on the hard spell. With the pin of her cloak, she pricked a finger, glad to find that whoever she was, she was still female.

The blood came in a small well, and she smeared it on the top of her stave, making sure it didn't touch any of Cony's hair. Unlike, the changing spell, this one's magic was more noticed where it was aimed, so Marisa wouldn't feel the rush. Slowly, she eased her will into the stave, muttering some words, verbal catalysts, if you will. This could go really, really, wrong.

"_DeHayersae Conyeri, ad neh_," she told it, giving it a name to go and seek. If Cony had been given a more common name, she'd have to specify some things, but the DeHayersae family were small. "_Egho trouveras'eras_." The unfamiliar language rolled from her tongue like ash, making it dry. The staff, according to her will, glowed briefly with magic and faded, and at the same time, all of her runes gave, leaving her unprotected if whatever magic she was using decided she wasn't strong enough for it. She considered drawing some new ones, but shook the idea out of her head. She had to wait for the return of her spell.

It was a very tense minute and a half, but eventually, the stave glowed again with a dark green, informing her that her spell had been completed. Then, as expected, it hovered for a moment, looking her over as much as magic could. She ducked from the casting area and quickly washed her hands in the little bowl, watching in confidence as the green magic dissipated, gone to exact its revenge on the nearest non-virgin who was bleeding. Stupid.

-

Briefly, Conyeri considered turning back. The gates of Stormwind were huge, imposing, and open. The guard had been doubled, their heavy armour clanking as they patrolled up and down, looking very, very sinister all of a sudden. Under her cap, she gulped, feeling her nearly flat chest with apprehension. The carriage she was on trundled up to the gates, the men beginning to get rowdy as they saw Stormwind again. The cart was filled with goods for market, coming from eastern Elwyn. Conyeri had been picked up by it after Eva has fixed her up, and she had gone and talked to her daughter, Mary. Why that was such a chore, she hadn't understood at the time. Now, she admired how Eva kept her head up.

"_And tell her we all still love her. You will, right?" Eva said, her wrinkled face lined with worry. "Tell her she's beautiful. She'll like that."_

"_Okay," Conyeri said, apprehensive. Eva had already disguised her as a boy, even though she had vehemently objected to having her hair cut. And quite handsome she was, too. That woman had more to her than met the eye. Through subtle magic, her curves were gone, and by nothing more than dressing the right way, she looked like a young gentleman. Maybe two or three years younger than she was as a girl, but plausibly male. _

_Eva had given her directions to a small, one-floored house just out of the immediate area of Darkshire. She found it odd that the woman would not go and see her daughter herself, but was all too thankful towards her to deny her this. There were dull lights glowing from the windows, and Conyeri knocked on the door, glancing over her shoulder. She didn't like how this place felt._

_There was no answer at the door, so she knocked again, harder. At once, a piercing wail accosted her ears, and she clamped her hands over them in agony, her eyes scrunched up. Knocking again, she gritted her teeth against another wail, then another. Inhuman, they were, a screeching mockery of a real cry._

"_Leave!" came a strangely stilted voice from the other side of the door, decidedly female, but not quite right. Conyeri stiffened and gathered her courage._

"_Mary, I want to talk to you," she said, trying out her boy voice. It failed miserably, but she didn't start screeching again, which was taken as a good sign._

"_Who are you?" she asked, voice wavering. "Why do you smell of my mother?"_

"_I've come to talk to you for her." Cony said nervously. A cold laugh came from behind the wooden door, which swung open to reveal a husk of a woman, her transparent skin whiter than Stormwind stone, horrifically warped into a shadow of the beauty she must have been._

"_Why won't she talk to me herself!" she shrieked, gazing above Cony's head with unseeing eyes. "What a horrible creature I have become, that my own mother shan't dare look at me! So ugly am I that I cannot even behold myself! See my eyes, which I tore out with my own fingers, seeking to end my suffering? Is my suffering ended? No! Begone! Leave me to remain unseen!"_

"_Mary…" Conyeri's face painted a picture of pity that the ghost couldn't see. "Your mother still loves you very much."_

"_Then why can't she come and see me herself!" she glowered with empty sockets. "Answer me that, little boy!"_

_At least a blind, mad ghost thought she was a boy. "She can't leave Darkshire, Mary. She is old, too old to cope if anything attacked her. And besides, do you think it doesn't break her heart all over again to see you?"_

_The banshee began sobbing quietly, her spindly fingers tracing the dust that had accumulated on top of the furniture in her house. She spoke softly, her voice closer now to the melodious tune it must have once held. "She… she still loves me…?"_

"_Of course!" Conyeri exclaimed, seeing now not a spectre, but a woman in her middle years, twisted by powers beyond her control. "Mary, she did so much for me. She saved my life and gave me hope, and all she wanted to return the favour was for me to visit you. That is how much you are worth to her. Eva kept all your dresses, in the hope that one day you'd return and wear them. She just wants you to be at peace."_

"_Peace," she echoed, a forlorn look crossing her face. "Perhaps…" She turned her head back to Cony. "You have a dagger, boy, and a wit, I'd presume."_

"_I'd like to think so," she replied, slightly uneasy. She knew when she was about to be asked something. _

"_I was killed by a man, whose dark powers kept me in this ugly body. I don't want him dead, though I should. Sinking to his level is not justice, but petty revenge. All I want are my eyes back, so I may look upon these pictures again. How my memory fades…" she sobbed. "Find me some eyes, boy, and I might be more peaceful."_

_Eyes. How on earth was she going to find eyes for a banshee? She'd need first some actual eyes, then maybe a curse to attach them…_

"_Ask my daughter," she said, her voice lathered with emotion. "Ask my baby daughter. She'll know. I feel her mind from here."_

_Alyssa. Alyssa, with her sharp and suspicious eyes. Though she was not a baby any more. "I will," she promised, then remembered what Eva had told her. "You're beautiful, Mary."_

_The banshee snorted. "In life. Now, perhaps not."_

"_It must have been a while since you looked at yourself. When you get your eyes, don't think about yourself as what you've become, but what you were all along. Not outward beauty, but beauty of your soul,"_

_That sounded incredibly sappy, but Conyeri saw the softening of the banshee's face and decided it was worth it. "I'll go find Alyssa now."_

_She quietly closed the door. Back at Madame Eva's house, the three were seated around the table, looking apprehensive. "She wants eyes, and she told me that Alyssa could help."_

_They let out a collective breath. "I can," she said, her eyes shining with tears." Logh, get me some of those seeds you sell. The purplish ones from the grove." She got out of her seat and ran up to her room, coming down with a jar full of eyes. _

"_How could she have known?" Cony said, astounded. Alyssa shrugged._

"_There is a vendor who comes around about twice a year. He sells enchanted eyeballs… ever since I was little, I liked they way they looked at me. It was like they were watching me when I slept, keeping me safe. I never thought that there would be another use for them."_

_Loghan came back from the pantry with a handful of purplish seeds. Alyssa looked much older than ten years old, grinding them up and looking at the jar. She suddenly burst into tears._

"_Aly…" Eva went over and put an arm around her. "What is it, love?"_

"_I…" she sniffed, hiccupping between her words. "I don't remember… what colour mum's eyes were…"_

"_Brown," she whispered quietly, into Alyssa's ear. "Just like yours."_

_She nodded softly and picked two matching brown ones from the jar, the liquid they were kept in wetting her hand. The powder from the seeds was sprinkled on them, and they lit up briefly, swiveling around to look at Alyssa, unblinking. Conyeri thought they were a bit creepy, but by the way that the little girl smiled, they obviously meant more to her than she was showing. She put them in a glass of water and held them tight to her. "I'm taking them, whatever grandma says," she said firmly. "I haven't seen my mother in seven years. Me, grandma and Loghan are going to be the first people she sees, whether you helped or not."_

_Conyeri smiled at her bossiness, a mask for her impending emotional explosion. "Of course," she said softly. "It's half of what you deserve."_

_Though Eva fussed about going out into Duskwood at this time, Cony assured her that she was well enough to fend off the weaker beasts around Darkshire. This was not enough, apparently, so a member of the Night Watch came with them. Once at Mary's house, Conyeri was to give her the eyes and then let Eva and the kids in._

_She knocked on the door, and unlike earlier, it opened immediately. "Have you got them? Already?" she asked, her face full of urgent need._

"_Yes," she offered the glass, which Mary took eagerly._

"_Oh, my smart little Alyssa…" she crooned, pulling one of the eyes out. "Oh, my brave little Loghan. My wonderful mother. How I miss them so…" she set the glass down and took the other eye out, then fitted both of them into her sockets. They fit perfectly and she blinked many times as the magic took hold, re-making the tunnels from her eyes to her brains that were long dead. Cony stepped back and let the three of them shuffle in as the Night Watcher stood sentry outside._

"_By the Light…" Mary exclaimed, seeing for the first time in seven years, looking at her family. "Oh, what torture this was…" she cried, flinging her arms over Eva, who held her just as tight, even though her body was only half-present in her undeath. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she beheld her two children, who were not repulsed, as she thought, but teary-eyed too. The love in the air was palpable._

_Watching the scene as she was for the sidelines, Conyeri saw a look of content slip over Mary's face, and knew her time was nigh. As she beheld the scene, the banshee curse lifted from her, leaving a ghost, a beautiful woman in her thirties, dressed for an occasion, her brown hair shining in the evening light. _

"_I am sorry I couldn't be with you, my darlings," she held Alyssa and Loghan tighter, as her hands started to slip through them. "My time is finally up. I am free…" she breathed, giving her mother one last loving gaze before the light of ascension overcame her and she slowly faded from view, leaving them not with the vision of the twisted banshee, but the kind mother, beautiful inside and out._

-

A tear flowed down Cony's dirty cheek, unseen by the jaunty men she traveled with. She was so glad that she had been a part of Mary finally finding peace, and her children's last meeting with their mother.

Now was the time her disguise would be tested. Once on the streets of Stormwind, she'd be safer than in Darkshire- who looked twice at a stablehand or shoe-shiner, after all- but at the gates, security would be high. She was pretty high up in the middle area of the most wanted list at the moment. The cart trundled to the gates and immediately two guards came to inspect their cargo. "Business in Stormwind?" the taller one asked, addressing his question to the wagon driver, while looking under the protective waterproof tarpaulin that saved the merchandise from getting soaked.

"We be 'ere for th' market," he said, allowing the man to uncover his goods. "Cloth, linen an' leather goods, all from Eastvale or 'round them parts."

The shorter guard concentrated on the people. "These your sons, sir?"

"Nah, just this lad," she gestured to the brawny boy nearing adulthood who was feeding the horse. "The others are either comin' in from the country to make a livin', or I picked 'em up on the way, fer a couple silver."

"I see." The guard said shortly. "Caps off, please. We apologize for the raised security, but you can't be too careful these days."

"'Course," the merchant removed his cloth cap, showing his balding head. Conyeri did the same, and was relieved that another boy with the wagon also had long hair. Hers was tied at the nape of her neck in a little ponytail, as Eva had said was the style for young gentlemen these days.

"Your name, lad?" the guard asked her, his eyes bored but not disapproving.

"Connor, sir," she tried her best Stormwind accent, cultivated from Geylan.

"Okay, what's your business here? Or rather, back here?"

"I spent some time in the country with my aunt," she lied. "Dead sickly, I was, as a boy. Country air did me good."

The guard nodded. "That it does." He moved on to the other boy with long hair. His name was Allan, and he was seeking work after his village had been sacked. The others mostly had similar stories. After a couple more minutes, they were let through, and Cony put her cap back on, a small feeling of victory settling in her stomach.

The air in Stormwind was very different to that of anywhere she had been before- it was awash with different scents, all battling each other for supremacy, and thicker, too, with just a hint of pollution. She thanked the merchant and got off, tipping her hat as she was told boys did. Taking in the sights of the big city, she ambled around for a bit, quite reluctant to do much. The trade district drew her in, the blue roofs and whitewashed houses identical in stark contrast to the myriad of people that bustled around, selling this, buying that, waiting in the queue at the bank, excitedly receiving post. If she was going to make a living, this was where she would do it.

An inn sign caught her eye, and she walked towards it, fingering the bag of coins in her pocket, sparse as it was. The small change she had in it was from the money she had won about a week ago in a game of dice with Geylan, who was notoriously bad at the gambling game, and indeed gambling in general. It wasn't much, but it was enough for the ride here, and a night or two in an inn, she hoped.

The Gilded Rose was large and cushy, situated as it was in the trade district and thus the central hub of Stormwind. Relaxed on one of the chairs was a woman, about Mary's age, with vibrant red hair that fanned out from her head and wry eyes. She put down the glass of wine she was drinking and stood up.

"What can I do for you?' she asked, somewhat wary. Conyeri did realize that to this woman, she looked like a poor, dirty little boy.

"I was wondering if you had a room for the night," she said tentatively, her spirits dropping as the woman raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"I do, but now much money do you have?"

Conyeri checked her little coin bag. "Uh… seventy silver, about." The innkeeper snorted.

"Country boy, are you? Seventy silver won't buy you anything here, or at any other reputable inn in Stormwind. And, no offense, you'd be mauled in a disreputable one."

"Oh," she said, genuinely not knowing how expensive things were in capital cities. "Um, I'll just go then. Sorry."

"No, no wait up a moment," she studied Conyeri approvingly. "Are you good with animals?"

_I'm good with Worgen_, she though dryly. She supposed that worgen were like wolves, which were like dogs… animals couldn't be so hard. "Very, ma'am."

"Country folk always are," she smiled. "I you'd like, my stablemaster is looking for extra help since his sons were enlisted. Go around the back and he'll give you a trial."

"Thank you," she bowed and tipped her cap, excited. This had gone much better than planned… but there was something lingering. Her lack of purpose. Well, not exactly- what she was actually trying to do was to escape the Defias, but she had no aspiration, no greater goal. Had she ever? It had never really bothered her before, living in the present as she did, due to the security of her future. Now that was gone, shattered by the Defias, she again had to look to what came next, rather than what was happening now. It was something the made her frown.

For now, she would find somewhere to rest, and someone to talk to. Her heart panged as she thought of Geylan, and the long talks they had in his rooms late into the night, when Marisa was but a fairy tale and she could forget she had killed someone. How the would laugh and smile, how he was always insightful without being sagely. The night at carnie, when she had found out that Dez was more than a thug and Harrman was actually sharply intelligent. She smiled softly at the thoughts, outlined as they were in gold and silver in her memories, set as stark difference from the darkness that mired her life. Her parents. Marisa. The Defias, Alt.

She emerged from her musings and into the stable, a large building, with ten or more stalls, about half of which were filled. A corral was attached to it, small owing to the space the housing rising of their side allowed, and a ladder led up into a barn-like loft. A gruff-looking man was scraping dirt off a horse's hoof. He was a human, but very stocky, a thick head of grey hair and bulbous mustache making him look quite like a horse himself. He was dressed in simple overalls, with tough boots and gloves. When she entered, he looked up from his work and showed his twinkling grey eyes.

"The innkeeper sent me. She said you needed an assistant?" she said hopefully, her voice as low as she could get it without sounding comical. He set the horse's hoof down and stood up, stretching his muscles.

"She'd be right," he replied, taking her in, noting her dagger, her long hair, and her clothes. "What's a rich country boy like you doin' here then?" he asked gruffly. "Your clothes are very nice, soft linen, and under your dirt, you've had a bath recently. You stink of healing wounds, even over the horse smell in here, and the shit on your body is Darkshire soil."

"You can tell all that?" she asked, eyes wide. He chuckled and dusted his hands off.

"Easy," he held a newly slightly cleaner hand out for her to shake. "Darron Kinsdown, groom of the Gilded Rose."

She took it and marveled at how calloused it was. "Connor, sir."

"So, you're here for a job? Light knows I need some help around here. Let's see how you do with the horses, aye?" He led her over to the mare whose hooves he'd been cleaning. "How much d'you know about horses?"

"Quite a lot, sir," she said, thinking back to the horse they'd had on their farm, who'd tilled the fields. She enjoyed working with animals.

"And about rams? Tigers? Mechanostriders? Elekk?" he asked smugly, leading her from the mare to a majestic tiger, which was curled up and snoring in the stall.

"Not so much," she replied, gazing at the beast. She knew elves, and gnomes and a few dwarves… but never ones rich enough to own mounts. "But I'd like to learn."

"You'd like to," he grinned. "Okay, lets see how you are with horses in general first. Often, mounts have been ridden into the ground when eventually travelers reach Stormwind, and they're either on their last legs or very, very angry. Angry is hardest to deal with. I'm going to get this horse riled up, and I want you to calm her," he walked over to the mare and started agitating her, making her whinny and baulk. He then opened her pen and let her get out, which she did, snorting and very angry. Cony walked slowly up to her, and didn't even need to touch the beast before it turned to her and calmed, trotting over to her and nuzzling her neck. Surprised, she thought back to the Worgen, how they had not only _apologized _to her, but also taken her into their confidence and protected her.

It was rather strange.

"Amazing," he clapped for her. "Can you do other animals too?"

"Sure," she grinned, liking this, if not being incredibly comfortable with it. The compulsion, the magnetism that both animals and trouble seemed to feel towards her was something she hadn't really noticed until leaving her home, where there were precious few animals or little trouble to bother her, except the horse. Her parents had been crop farmers, not animal breeders. Darron led her over to a ram in the far corner, stamping impatiently, having seen the horse get poked. It raised its head curiously when Conyeri approached, stopping its stomping in favour of sniffing her. Like the horse, it fell placid, encouraging it to gently stroke its soft, wooly fur.

"That's some gift you have there," Darron said. "None of my boys has ever been that good."

"Thanks, sir," she said breathlessly, looking from him to the animals. There was something unnatural about it all that she just couldn't place, something slightly amiss, but, in-keeping with her new don't-bother-with-the-future philosophy, she brushed it aside and consented to be clapped on the shoulder by the groom.

**-**

Confusion was the central emotion rising from the fight, so tangled and unreserved were the participants. Geylan had one eye trained on Dez and Harrman, handling three or four bandits by themselves, and Geylan had two on him. The coachman, a wiry chap with less courage than a tapeworm, was crouched in the upturned carriage, probably soiling himself.

Bandits had attacked their small entourage on the way out of Loch Modan, stocky orcs with mottled grey skin and sharp swords, trained in the art of ambush. Geylan twisted one's blade out of his hands with, he realized, the same move he had been teaching Conyeri. Angered, he booted the Orc in the face and broke its skull, with no time to watch it topple down the sheer cliff on this side of the pass. He twirled around to the other one, parrying a slice at his neck and ducking low, bringing his sword up in a thrust straight at its belly. The orc careened to the side, narrowly missing the stab, so Geylan turned his upward drive into a quick leap, landing on top of a flat rock. From here, he noted that Dez and Harrman were easily beating the ones that were upon them, working in a furious flash of blades, back to back and leaving bloody orc in their wake.

Geylan's enemy came at him again, thinking to push him off his balance, but he jumped over the swung sword and used the Orc's shoulders to force it down, pinning it to the floor and finishing it with a swift beheading. Panting, he ran over to the remaining two orcs and backstabbed one, letting it fall to the floor in tandem with Dez's last one, grimly mutilated.

"Nice," the brawnier man said. "I got three."

"No!" Harrman protested. "Two! _I_ got that one with the club!"

Geylan smiled at how the two of them could go from serious fighters to brotherly competitors in a mere second. "Well, I took four."

They both glared at him as he smirked. The coachman came out from under the upturned wagon and looked around. "Oh, sirs, how thankful I am you can fight…" he dabbed his brow with a grotty handkerchief. "I confess that I've never been attacked by worse than a singular highwayman…"

"Worry not," Harrman said, mock-posh accent full on as he rested his sword over his shoulder and posed. "We three followers of the Light shall ne'er fail thee."

The coachman, not understanding the joke, apologized profusely for nothing as they set about righting the cart and returning its strewn about contents.

"Harrman, the further north we go the more I get the willies," Dez said quietly. "It's like… somethin' wants us ter go north."

"Marisa?" Harrman asked lightly, but in truth, they all felt the same thing. "Perhaps it's Conyeri, calling for help?"

Dez mumbled something, but disagreed and hefted a chest back onto the coach roof. "I dunno what it is, but we shud be wary of it."

"Agreed," Geylan entered the conversation, eyeing the coachman suspiciously. "Though such things are better talked upon in private."

They returned to the road an hour or so after that, entering the dwarvern passes, solemn and stony. Geylan thought on their mission, rolling potential plans around his head. Marzy had been frank and said the same general thing as Marisa, that they were spying on the Syndicate. From a base in Southshore, Geylan and Harrman would do as much sneaking around as they could, while Dez would act as a distraction, making the Syndicate think that he was the only aggressor. Ravenholdt were going to give them backup if necessary, but they were wary of allying with the Defias. Not stupid enough, though, that they'd risk Syndicate encroachment just because the Defias were anti-Alliance. They were capitalists first and foremost.

Geylan was Jaken, a cobbler, sharing his small shop with Harrman, his brother Enrik. Dez was, in true thug fashion, Zed, a brawler-turned-bouncer who had some bones to pick with the Syndicate. Together they would spend perhaps a month or two finding out the full scope of Syndicate expansion, and then report back to the Defias, who would file it away and not worry about it until they had to, because Hillsbrad was really too far north to worry them at this stage. Marisa really was trying to get rid of anyone who could potentially try to recover Conyeri.

Now angry, Geylan began one of his favourite hobbies: thinking of different ways to kill Marisa. Sick though it was, he honestly hated the woman more than he probably should. Her smug, self-satisfied face, her power over the Defias, and her complete nonchalance at having completely buggered Conyeri's life up, all of them made her a hate figure to him. And now, likely, she would be doing some spell to find out where she was, and then she'd swoop down like an overgrown gargoyle and pluck her from the safe place in which she was hiding and ensnare her again in her web of desire. Geylan had no problem with free sexuality, though admittedly he did not fancy men at all, as some of the Defias openly did, but the thought of Marisa's greedy hands roaming Conyeri's body was more than he could bear.

Disturbed and having come down from his post-battle elation, Geylan frowned and looked at the horizon. It was dark and brooding, like his mind, foretelling a storm. They would soon be in the Wetlands, where a single storm could flood and entire marsh, so he called the carriage to a stop as it left one of the dwarvern tunnels, and they camped in a small shelter build for such, bearing the insignia of the Loch Modan Mountaineers. This place was safe from orcs and other things that lurked in the mountains.

In the night, Geylan watched, miserable, as the rain pelted down, jagged arms of lightning and rolling thunder preventing his rest. He felt unsure, young, for the first time in many years, uncomfortable with himself. He did not question his values and morals: after all that he had done, he'd just depress himself, but he did think on relationships. He was not, by nature, a friendly man, seeking the company of poisons and ranking skill in higher regard than charisma, but he felt himself warming. Since he had met Conyeri, people didn't just salute him, they now smiled at him, started conversation with him. He has friends, good friends he could count on to watch his back in a fight not because they would be paid to, but because they genuinely held his safety in regard. Dez, more than the thug he looked, and Harrman, scarily intelligent under his childish arrogance.

"Conyeri…" her name disappeared into the rain, smothered, like her spirit, alive only in his memories. She had shown him fun, taught him how to make friends, and most importantly, how to keep his head up. He came from a much easier, by comparison, background than her, and she still smiled, still ploughed on with life, even if she was overtaken by doubts. The Defias had stabbed her in the front then let her wound scar over before opening it again and again; opening to her a life she baulked at, and still she had grinned through the training, made the effort to make friends. How sorely he missed her…

"Shaw," Dez came up behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "No use, my friend, no use. Let 'er come."

"Why do you think I'm thinking about her?" he asked glumly, looking into Dez's dark eyes, filled his wisdom his body belied.

He shield softly. "Ya think not much else, ter be honest." He blushed a bit and returned to his vacant staring.

"Do you think we'll find anything up north?" he asked idly, his hair falling into his eyes. "Or are we just there so Marisa can catch Cony without interference?"

"I think a bit of both," he answered truthfully. "Marisa may be the Monster, but she's Marisa too. Per'aps she'll realize whut she'd doin'. Per'aps not. I kno' 'ow awful this sounds, Shaw, but you've gotta trust 'er te make the right choice."

"Trust Marisa Du'Paige to think with her head and not her-"

"Shuddup…" Harrman yawned. "Sleepy-time now, gents. We have aaaages to go tomorrow."

Dez turned and apologized to him, returning to speaking with Geylan, his voice lower. "I wouldn't bet any money on that, Shaw, but that's 'ow it goes."

Geylan sighed and returned to his blanket, where he had a dream that Marisa chased Conyeri around the Eastern Kingdoms while he sat in a gloomy house in Southshore, selling shoes. Marisa caught Conyeri, laughing, sultry, pulling her to bed, and Conyeri looked back at Geylan and smiled at him.

"_This is what I want, Geylan. Don't stop me._" She said, kissing Marisa tenderly. "_We're friends, Geylan, good friends. Best friends… but I don't _love_ you._" Marisa laughed at him again, undoing Conyeri's shirt.

"_This is what she wants, Master Shaw. Not you. She wants me. Only me. She's mine, Master Shaw…_"

Despaired, he left the room, thoughts haunted by the sounds of lovemaking, tears streaming down his cheeks. Oh, why was he affected so? It was a lie, a lie in a dream made from negative thoughts. He would find Cony and they would be happy, laughing and sparring, eating in the refectory… wouldn't they?

"Wake up, you lump!" Harrman shook him roughly and pried his warm covers from his hands. By the Light, it was cold. Everything was damp. Geylan groaned and roused himself, standing on shaky feet with crusty eyes. Dez and Harrman were ready to leave; the Coachman was even just putting an extra pair of socks on. He quickly dressed himself in thicker clothes and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, looking at the mountains. The rain had frozen and the paths were thick with ice. Traveling would be treacherous until they reached the Wetlands. Grumbling, he helped feed and harness the horse before they set off, slow and careful. His head hurt with thinking and dreaming things that displeased him.

"Not a particularly nice night?" Dez sympathized with him, chewing some long-life bread, tough as the leather breastplate he wore. Geylan agreed and nibbled his own rations, thinking they tasted like ash in his mouth. He wanted to see Conyeri, or maybe Rosea, or someone tender and, well, female. He wasn't wanton in his desires as a good proportion of the Defias were, but he still appreciated the female form and missed it. He was a man after all, such things were ingrained in his nature. Thinking on nature he let his mind fly again to the lands he would be visiting, thinking of lush forests and trees and lands full of animals, like Elwyn but wilder. What he would find there, he didn't know, and how everything would turn out he could only plan for. Jaken the cobbler was a man he would have to get to know as himself in time.

-

"It's awfully dirty, the city," Lady Ashcroft sniffed and held her nose, looking from the carriage window. "Though I suspect we can find a nice inn for a night or so, which is as long as I will stay here."

The butler smiled warily, used to his mistress's complaining. Stormwind was a city of beauty, but a newer beauty, not the antiquity they were used to up in Alterac. "There is a top-class Inn known as the Gilded Rose just around the corner, my Lady."

"We'll see how top-quality it is." She sniffed, insufferably posh. "When we get there, order them to send a messenger out to Rebecca, telling her I've arrived and where we are. Cefflan should be with her."

"Yes, my Lady." He acquiesced, dusting off his pressed uniform. Only once every five or so years did Lady Ashcroft deign to visit Stormwind to take her children back to Manor Ashcroft in Alterac, preferring to have them taken up to meet her. The master of the house said that she should see more of the city, though, so she had dutifully come down from the far north by carriage. They stopped outside a nice, up-market Inn with a beautiful painted sign and she visibly relaxed, smiling at the innkeeper, a woman a little younger than her with a straight back and a nice premises. As soon as she stepped out, the groom and his boy came to take her carriage and horses in. He regarded them- you could always tell a good inn by the class of its grooms. The man was ageing but firm, with strong eyes, and his boy was handsome, with an air of kindness about him that you saw in so few boys around Southshore. She decided she would send him to get Rebecca.

"Boy," she beckoned to him after she had paid her night's board. The menu looked delicious, the fragrances drifting from the kitchen supporting the butler's claim. He came over, a graceful walk, quiet and obedient, smiling at her with sincerity. If only he was high-born, son or cousin of a Lord, perhaps, he would make a fine husband for her daughter one day. "Are you free to perform a task for me? Need I pay you?"

"Of course, my Lady. You have already paid us more than we could ever take by entrusting your beautiful horses to us," he gestured to the two purebred stallions, one of which clip-clopped over to him and nuzzled him affectionately. He must be very skilled with animals.

"Indeed they are lords amongst horses," she agreed, quite taken with his politeness and cultivated air. "I would ask of you, when they are properly stabled, to venture to the Mage Quarter and seek out my children, currently of study there, and direct them back here." She took a small piece of paper from her handbag and wrote something on it in beautiful, loopy handwriting. "Show this to the mages of the tower and they'll let you in to fetch them. Ask after Rebecca and Cefflan Ashcroft." The groom-boy bowed low and took the paper in soft hands, reading it swiftly. Literacy was good, also, but Lady Ashcroft stopped herself before she started checking her mental list of attributes in a potential husband.

"T'would be my honour, my Lady," he said and slipped the paper in his pocket, bowing again before returning to the horses. They really loved him.

"Connor, if you can prepare our two best stalls. Nice fresh hay, two troughs, finest only for such beasts," the groom in charge asked him. He obliged and disappeared down the side of the inn, presumably where the stables were. The groom unharnessed the horses gently and sized up the carriage. "Boy!" he shouted, and Connor popped back.

"Yes, Darron?" he asked, his shirt billowing as he slid to a stop.

"While you're there, tell Mary we'll need some more black paint. The trip had not been fair on their carriage." Indeed, the weather down from Alterac had been truly horrific, rain and sleet and huge thunderstorms. Rebecca would no doubt explain what it meant in magery in full tonight. Connor, the groom-boy, nodded and disappeared again, leaving Lady Ashcroft to move her personal effects to her room, which meant having the butler do it. The coachman had waddled off to the nearest tavern already, drunken lout. She really must fire him soon.

Never one to miss an excuse to use the horses, Conyeri took two of them out of the stable after she had tended to the two impressive stallions that Lady Too-Posh had come with, grimacing at being sent to pick up a couple of kids. Politeness sold rooms, Allison reminded her, so she had dutifully smiled and been a young gentleman about it, though now she was quite enjoying herself. She rode Kestor, a strong bay, who belonged to Darron but was scarce ridden enough these busy winter months, and held the reigns of another horse, affectionately nicknamed Horsey. This was because he really was just a horse… not short or tall, not meek or strong, not one-eyed or limp-hoofed, just normal.

The air was cold and she hadn't stopped to pick up her overcoat before leaving, so she trotted at pace, entering the mage quarter with its odd, grassy streets and purple houses. Three weeks and four days had she lived in the loft over the stables of the Gilded Rose, and after only one she was yearning to be out of the city. Country girl at heart, she missed open fields, and her friends, even if they were all wanted criminals of the Defias. It wasn't as though there weren't children her age in Stormwind, because there were plenty, but she couldn't get too close to them for fear of being discovered as a girl. She had slipped into a male persona easily enough, though she couldn't manage gruff or manly, so she settled for gentlemanly. It made teasing news out of the gossiping girls who met in the sitting rooms of the Gilded Rose easy.

She came into the centre of the mage quarter and dismounted, knocking on the lowest door of the large tower that dominated it. Telling the horses to stay there, she showed the paper to a gnome in apprentice robes and was ushered in, the cold draughts of early winter not sitting well with the sensitive mages. Conyeri didn't like mages; they reminded her of Marisa.

"You'll find her in her rooms, just up a floor, the door with all of the cleaning notices on," the gnome said, rolling his eyes. This Rebecca was obviously a messy one, like Geylan. Taking the steps two by two, she reached the second floor and clearly saw Rebecca's door, covered in sheets of parchment warning her to tidy her room or she'd be on extra kitchen duty for a week, then a month, and the newest one said three months. She chortled a bit, thinking the mages were not so good at enforcing their rules.

She knocked and there was a crash from behind the door, followed by a moan and bare feet crunching on paper. The door swung open to reveal a very rushed-looking girl, about Conyeri's age, her auburn hair askew and a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. She gave Conyeri a once-over and blushed. "Um, hello."

"I've come to fetch you, from your mother," she explained, voice cool. "Your brother, also."

"Oh, yes, yes." She said as though she'd forgotten. "Come in, come in, I'll be not a minute and that corridor is awfully draughty."

Not one to point out she slept in a draughty loft over a barn, Conyeri entered and politely stood in the corner, taking in the sight. Her room was small but grand, littered with papers and homework and books. So many books! An alchemy set sat on a table, while a writing desk had been pushed to one wall to make room for a huge star chart, spread out to at least two meters by three. Clothes sat about the place in various states, some in piles fresh from the wash, others discarded long ago. Cony felt sad at now much it reminded her of Geylan's cubby in Camp RUTN, but forced herself to bring up memories of all the horrible things that had happened there, drowning her sadness in anger and spite.

Rebecca abruptly pulled the dress she was wearing completely off and Conyeri nearly forgot to be intensely embarrassed (because she was a boy) but caught herself and wheeled around, to hide the blush that she didn't have.

"Oh, please, a handsome boy like you will have seen many girls in less than there underclothes," she sighed from behind Conyeri. "If you're so inclined, you can leave and get my brother. He'll be in his room, just opposite mine."

She 'gladly' left and found that when Rebecca said opposite, she really meant three doors down and in a dorm. Cefflan was short and sandy-haired, buff for an eleven-year old and wouldn't stop talking about being a battle-mage. Rebecca chastised him when she had changed into something less creased for his babbling and marched him back into his dorm, forcing him into 'proper mum clothes', which she guessed were to please their aristocratic mother. Looking at them interact was funny; Conyeri had never had siblings herself. Finally, they were ready and she led them back out to the horses.

"Young Sir, if you'd ride with me," she offered him a leg up an immediately regretted it, seeing him puff up.

"I can ride a horse!" he said, indignant, and to prove it, swung himself up onto Horsey with ease, smiling down at her. "And it's just Cefflan, thanks. My sister can't ride a horse, let her on yours."

As Horsey wasn't big enough for two riders and Cefflan was adamant he would ride alone, Conyeri hefted Rebecca onto Kestor, which was difficult as she was scared. Conyeri now had very little patience with people who were not natural with animals as she was, and watching the mage dither was annoying her. After she had been secured enough, the groom herself leapt up and instructed Rebecca to hold her waist while they trotted at pace through the mage quarter. She did realize that Rebecca thought she was a boy and had called her handsome and was probably entertaining some odd thoughts, but she let the hands on her stomach press into her, quite conscious that she'd have to stop the girl if anything got out of hand. Since she'd become 'one of the boys', bodily contact was expected and something she had learned now to live with, breaking the barriers Marisa had put there, and admittedly she was much happier for it. The gossiping girls often hugged her or put their hands on her shoulder in gestures of affection that she knew now were normal for people, and really their fondness for her was of her own doing. Flirting she found very fun since she was out from under Marisa's shadow.

She did miss Geylan, though.

"You smell of horses," Rebecca said, pressed to Conyeri's back.

"I'm a groom," she replied. "I smell of tigers and rams and elekk sometimes, too."

"A groom?" she asked, eyes wide. "But you're so… refined."

Cefflan snorted and even Kestor whinnied, both of whom could probably tell that Conyeri was anything but refined under her customer-seducing façade. Kestor had heard her swearing, certainly, and Cefflan was a boy himself. He knew boys.

"Indeed," she said wryly as they came into the trade district. The sun dipped behind the horizon just at that moment and the shadows lengthened as nigh fell. Rebecca shivered, and being 'refined' and also having picked up a good number of techniques to receive a big tip, she balanced on Kestor and pulled her jacket off, offering it to her over her head. Though not an overcoat, it was warm from being worn. Rebecca took it with mumbled thanks and draped it over her shoulders, stopping her chattering teeth. From Horsey's back, Cefflan raised an eyebrow at her and she raised one right back, challenging him.

After another five or so minutes the Gilded Rose came into sight, Conyeri relived, since Rebecca's grip was tightening and roaming dangerously near her belt. Now wise in the ways of young people, she was not surprised. Being stuck in the mage tower denied a girl (or boy) certain things that were widely wanted… though Conyeri didn't wish to be there when Rebecca sated them, considering that the taking off of any of her clothes would reveal her womanhood and then all hell would break loose.

Dismounting and helping the young Ashcroft daughter to do the same, she led the horses behind and handed them to Darron who peeked around at Rebecca wearing her jacket and gave her a pat on the back. She returned and led them in.

"Rebecca! Cefflan!" Lady Ashcroft rose from an armchair near the fire where she had been sipping fine wine and hugged her two children. "Dear, you smell of horses."

Rebecca took the jacket off and handed it back to Conyeri. "This chivalrous groom lent it to me as I was so cold," she smiled as the 'chivalrous groom' took it back and slipped it on. Allison gave her a wink from where she was doing tallies, and Conyeri rolled her eyes.

Lady Ashcroft regarded her. "Thank you for being so swift. I would have not liked my children in Stormwind in the night."

"It was my honour, Lady Ashcroft," Conyeri said, voice saccharine. Cefflan again gave her the eyebrow, to which she gave a mild look and a smile.

"You may retire now, though I shall have need of you in the morning," she was dismissed. What did that mean; 'I shall have need of you in the morning'? She'd harness the horses to the cart, yes, but what other need was there for her than that? She thought not on it, retiring to the loft with a bow.

"So, are you to add young miss Ashcroft to your list of sexual conquests?" Darron asked, mocking Conyeri's habit of flirting. They were well suited to each other- she almost felt that she had replaced one of his sons, and he her lost father, though she was vehement that her parents' places would not be taken.

"Of course, Darron." She said sarcastically, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'm tired and it's cold and Lady Up-Stuck wants me in the morning."

"Say that to her face."

"I would if I could look at her without shriveling," they laughed and Darron wished her goodnight. Climbing the ladder, Conyeri entered the loft and kicked her boots off, quickly changing into her nightclothes. Then, from her vantage point, she snuck a peek through the loft window, into the inn proper, and saw Lady Ashcroft boring the socks off her children. Poor them, she thought, they'd have to spend the next month or so in her company.

She put the kettle on the small stove that had been lit earlier to keep the loft warm and made herself some hot chocolate, sleepy as she let the hot, thick liquid slide down her throat. Subdued, she shuffled into her bed, downy and soft. Not quite as nice as the one she'd had in Marisa's cubby, she thought, but the company didn't rape her, which was a great plus. But she was being pulled north, and she knew it. She needed to get out of the city, to find whatever was missing. It was an unsettling tug that she often forgot in times of action, but alone in her bed, she felt it strongly.

Dawn broke and the stamping of cold horses woke Conyeri before Darron, and she dressed quickly in her winter clothes, which she had had the sense to but with her first week's wage, which was not meager by any means. Chilled, she descended the ladder and went to tend to the horse in question, one of Lady Ashcroft's black stallions. Since they were not named, which Conyeri considered very rude, she gave them the title of the Thane and the Baron, noble as they were. She fed the Baron, who was pawing for some exercise, so she took him around the corral and rode him a little, marveling at his strength. These were beasts not to be trifled with.

"You seemed an early riser," came a voice from the entrance to the stables, but Conyeri had heard the footsteps coming, good as her senses were. She dismounted the Baron and led him back to his stall while Rebecca entered tentatively, not comfortable around horses, obviously.

"Your horse woke me," she smiled, patting the Baron and then tending to his friend, the Thane, who had woken and demanded food. "Your mother will not like you up so early, since she kept you awake so late last night."

"You know that?" she frowned, pulling her coat tighter around herself, her breath rising in a misty cloud.

Flirting mode fully on, Conyeri turned to her and smiled lazily. "The grooms have eyes everywhere."

"I would have hoped not in my rooms," she returned, "though they were indeed very nice. This inn is warm and cozy, and has very handsome stablehands. I shall ask my mother to leave a large tip."

Here came the tricky part, dissuading her from actually doing anything while still remaining charming. A change of subject usually did it, but it had to be natural, inkeeping with a subject of conversation previously mentioned. "Your mother wishes to speak with me this morning."

"I heard." She said. "I don't know what she wants of you, if that's what you're about to ask."

"I will find out in due time, anyway," Conyeri said pleasantly, grabbing some fresh oats for the waking horses, who would undoubtedly be hungry. "So, your are a noble of Alterac?"

"Don't remind me." She grimaced. "Manor Ashcroft is insufferably drear. Nobody ever comes to visit, I'm not allowed in the library and my sister is in Dalaran all year. Holidays are so boring up there."

She smiled guardedly at Rebecca, pulling her cap off her head. The ponytail she had held up there came down and she softened the fabric, which had gotten damp somehow and frozen overnight, making her head feel like she had stuck it in a lake.

"Oh!" she said, a small noise of delight. "You have long hair…" Conyeri knew this was semi-normal for boys around her age these days, and she would not have it cut off by Eva. She loved her thick, curly brown hair. The gossiping girls sometimes cooed over it.

"Why yes, I do." She said. "You like it?"

"Very much," Rebecca said, looking apprehensively at Horsey, who had just woken up. "You like horses?"

"Would I be here if I didn't?" Conyeri replied with another question, walking to tend to Horsey, which closed the space between them. "Animals like me."

"You have a country accent," she said, keeping the conversation going despite the cold and the early hour. "Where were you raised?"

"Westfall," she said truthfully, confident of her back-story, which was really less of a lie than it should be. "My parents were killed by the Defias."

"I'm sorry," she said, as did everyone when you told him or her that. "Were they farmers, then?"

"Yes, crop farmers," bending down to put some oats into Horsey's trough, she saw his water was nearly empty and went to refill it. "And you are a mage."

"An apprentice mage," she corrected 'him', chancing to stroke Horsey. "Honestly, so are my sister and my brother. Our family has always been into magic, right back to my ancestors."

"Nice," Conyeri said, thinking of Marisa. At least now she knew all mages weren't insane. "I have a… friend who is a mage."

"In Stormwind?"

"No, she, uh… she works freelance."

Rebecca snorted and decided that she liked Horsey, because he was normal and not scary like the Thane and the Baron. "You don't think much of freelance mages?" Cony asked.

"Without proper regulation they get addicted," she said coldly. "I'd rather not talk about that side of magic, though."

"Fair enough. The cooks will be up now, would you like an early breakfast?"

Rebecca nodded and Conyeri led her through the back door to the kitchens, where breakfast was already on the go. Rebecca, she had a feeling, was important. Rebecca would get her north, or something, she could rely on her to begin the next phase of the odd journey she had planned out in her head. The Ashcroft in question was looking around the kitchens, mesmerized. "You'd think you've never seen a kitchen before," she joked, but Rebecca looked at her, deadly serious.

"I haven't, except the Mage's Tower ones, and then only the washing up bit. This is amazing! So many pots with different things in, so many ways to cook…"

"I'm afraid if you eat with me you don't get the posh breakfast." Conyeri warned, but Rebecca just said she'd like to eat normal food and they sat in the little servant's dining room and ate pastries, fresh from the over, golden yellow and slathered in butter, steaming and filled with a centre of chocolate. From the look on Rebecca's face, she was in heaven.

"What are those things?" she asked after they finished. "I want more."

"Specialty of the Gilded Rose, butter buns with chocolate. You can get posher ones in bakeries but they're never straight out of the oven like here."

"I'll have to tell the cook when I get back to the Manor," she went sad at this. "I don't want to go back, really."

Conyeri thought she looked very cheerless at the thought of returning to her home and offered her a consoling hand on her shoulder. "It can't be that bad."

"It is," she touched Conyeri's hand with cold fingers. "I should return to my rooms now before my mother wakes up and finds me gone."

"Yes, I'll not want to be held accountable for her wrath," She smiled. Rebecca, before Conyeri could walk away, leaned in and kissed her softly, then blushed and left.

The kitchen staff gave a collective cheer and a wolf whistle but she glared at them and went back to the stable, cursing her luck. Why was it always the girls? What had she done to attract them?

Well, she was dressed as a boy, but still, she wiped her mouth and frowned, thinking now she'd have to avoid Rebecca, which she didn't really want to, since the girl was decent conversation. Gossip would travel fast and now the kitchen staff would heckle her. Darron would be insufferable…

She took several of the horses and one ram for a quick exercise and then, at Darron's indication, brought the Thane and the Baron out front. They harnessed the carriage and once the sun was properly risen, Lady Ashcroft appeared at the doorway. "Ah, groom-boy." She said. "I would have a word with you."

Obligingly she stepped from the horses, though the coachman was not yet present, to talk to her, but a messenger boy came around the corner and skidded to a halt in front of them before she could say anything. "Missus, there's been a brawl- a man is dead, or very wounded. They said Lady Ashcroft was his employer, I was sent to get you."

"Oh, dear," Lady Ashcroft said. "You say my coachman is unable to return me home?"

"Yesmissus, he's very hurt."

"Tell him he's fired for drinking on the job." She said, relieved that such an opportunity had come to get rid of him.

"Yesmissus," the boy said, scuttling off.

"What did you do that for, mother? Now we'll have to hire a new coachman, the ones here are so expensive…" Rebecca whined from the doorway, spotting Conyeri and blushing again.

"Do not fear, Becca. If he is willing, I have a fine replacement for half a coachman's fare." Her eyes fell on Conyeri. This was it; she thought excitedly, this was her way north, why Rebecca was important. She was going to drive the Ashcroft carriage.

"Me, my lady?" she said, concealing her excitement. "I am but a humble groom."

"You work with animals so well," she said, looking at Darron, who nodded, a little sad. "Allison tells me you've been here less than a month and already have many friends. That old man was grumpy and lazy, and now I need a new driver and stablehand. A young man like yourself would surely find life in the beautiful Alterac valleys to your liking?"

"I would so, my Lady," she said. "I would be honoured if Darron and Allison would allow it."

"Shame as it is to loose you, Connor, traveling is what a young lad like yourself should be doing! The horses will miss you." Darron tipped his hat to her in acceptance.

"As much as I enjoy employing you, bigger things await Connor the stablehand." Allison smiled and winked. "Though the kitchen staff will find you running off after this morning a fond fireside tale."

"Settled, is it?" Lady Ashcroft interrupted their sentiment. "We can settle money on our journey, which is long. My daughter and son will surely enjoy young company at the manor, also."

"Thank you, Lady Ashcroft," Conyeri bowed. "I'll fetch my things swiftly."

It did strike her, though, that she'd be spending a long coach journey with Rebecca… and however long she had to stay at the manor with Rebecca… but she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

She couldn't shake the feeling that, as she waved goodbye to the Gilded Rose, perhaps forever, she was going towards something familiar and away from something, too. Perhaps it was just her mind.

-

A/N: longer than usual but I wanted to get that done. I know this is quite late but I have been on holiday with no Internet to put this up. And I don't know a great deal about horses, so sorry if I made some mistake in their care or treatment.

Let me know what you think… Conyeri is pulled north, just like Geylan and Marisa… what could be going down? What did Marisa find in Cony's room? Will she catch Cony before Cony gets to Geylan? Where has the discernable plot gone? What about the Defias zeppelin?

Find out in the next couple of chapters of _The Brotherhood_.


	7. Chapter 7

The Brotherhood

Chapter Seven

Curious, the deer trotted towards where Marisa sat, legs crossed, very irritable. At ease, it brushed its head against her resting arm and startled, she lashed out at it. It baulked slightly but returned again to nuzzle her, much to her anger. She stood up and kicked at it, felling it with a blow to the head.

"Can't a mage sit in peace any more?" she growled to it, dusting herself off. She'd been sitting, relatively calm, in the forest of Elwyn, thinking about her plans, and every animal in a mile radius seemed to find her. It frayed her patience. She had followed Cony's complicated trail and it had led her all over Westfall, then she'd lost it completely until she went into Duskwood. _Duskwood, I tell you…_ she thought. She'd been into the mine of the worgen where none remained and walked through Darkshire, finding the house she had stayed at. Inside were sleeping two children and a grandmother, just the sort of people to help 'poor, helpless Cony' out. Marisa had smiled and knocked on their door in the dead of night, complacent in her disguise, and a small girl had answered her with hard eyes and told her that evil could not set foot past the door. Marisa had been disturbed that she could not, even though she knew very well that she was an evil person. Instead, she had asked after Cony, and the girl told her that she was gone and would say nothing else.

Her search then led her back into Elwyn where her trail was clear and straight into Stormwind. _Stormwind_. Was she suicidal? Marisa certainly hoped not- she was going to be having stern words with that girl when she found her. More than stern words. Grimacing, she decided she'd continue her search now, as it was around lunchtime and she didn't fancy hunting for her own food. She walked through Elwyn forest, thinking that it would probably do her better to buy a horse, but she also didn't want to leave her own trail. Edwin would chastise her greatly for abandoning her duties during this important time to search after one trainee, but she didn't care. North and Cony went together, a great pull on her mind.

"Yer name, miss?" the guard asked as she approached the gates of Stormwind. An ugly man, too bulky to be just muscled with a burnt, red nose and bushy graying eyebrows. She regarded him with disdain.

"Arianne Mistleigh." She had actually taken her pseudonym straight from a younger Defias who had come from Duskwood. If he'd bothered to look her up, which he wouldn't, he'd find she'd lived in Raven Hill, and as no record of Raven Hill had been taken after it was abandoned, the investigation would stop there.

"And yer business in Stormwind?"

"Pleasure. To see the city, to eat the food… it has been many years since I've had the opportunity to travel here."

"Okay, that's fine. I'd just like to search that satchel you have, please." He held a hand out and she passed the bag to him. Silly man, he wouldn't find anything. The guard rummaged through and came across her collapsible staff, which she'd brought just in case. He called to one of the other guards, who came over.

"She has a staff, is that okay to go through?" he asked.

"Err, depends on what classification it is." The other guard turned to her. "Do you have a license to carry a Class 5 Magical Conduit?"

What, by the gods, was a Class 5 Magical Conduit?

"Clearance? Where I come from, sir, you carry a weapon or you die."

"If you've trained at any mage school, they'll have given you clearance when you graduated. It's a piece of paper, signed by your Instructor. You don't have it?"

"I never went to Mage School," she hissed, wanting to call him an idiot but refraining for her own sake. "I was always a mage. I bought the staff; I kill undead with the staff. The staff isn't going to spontaneously blow a crater the size of Dalaran in your city, don't worry."

"I'm sure, miss, but you need clearance from a Magister of the Third Echelon or above to bring a Class 5 Magical Conduit into a city classified as a Rank A Municipality, under the Mages act of the year 623 by the King's Calendar."

"That is absolute bullshit." She said, regretting it immediately, but could not stop herself. "If it means so much to you, keep it, but I want the gold I paid for it reimbursed, or for it to be given to me on my exit from the city."

"I'm afraid that would be a direct breach of the Stormwind City Guard's Charter, Chapter Seven, paragraph three." He replied, and Marisa wanted to punch him in the face for being such a know-it-all.

"Keep it, then." She sighed. "Can I go in, now?"

The two guards removed the staff from her bag and put it inside a crate. She winced, thinking that if the crate were examined, they'd find residue of black magic still on it.

"Are you a mage?" Guard Smarty-Pants asked.

"Yes." She stared him right in the eyes and glowered at him, hoping to cow him to submission. He looked a little uneasy, but not scared. She wished she was normal Marisa, and then she'd really give him the evil eye. He rummaged in another crate and pulled out a form.

"If you could fill in this form," he said, handing her a quill and pot of ink. Rolling her eyes, Marisa smoothed the form out on top of a sealed crate and looked at it.

_Name:_

_Age:_

_Race:_

_Class: (if Death Knight, please specify which class you trained in before being ruthlessly bound by the Lich King's rule.)_

_Reason for visit: (Please do not include a full itinerary.)_

Fair enough, she thought, filling it out in handwriting completely opposite from her own. They'd probably have it on file from all the letters she'd sent that were intercepted. Bastards. She finished and looked at the other half of the form.

_Last postal address:_

She strained to remember before writing, _The School House, Raven Hill, Duskwood._

_Trained at: (Please specify which branch of your class you studied, under which high Instructor, and which grade you attained.)_

Marisa looked at it, dumbfounded. She hesitated and wrote, _N/A. _The last part of the form was a statement to sign.

_I, (please print name here in common) do swear that upon my entrance to Stormwind City, I will abide by its laws, refrain from and violent, outlandish, overly-sexual or prejudiced behavior in public, and if an invasion of the Horde/Scourge/Burning Legion/Defias Brotherhood/Dragonflights (assorted)/Demons (assorted)/Elemental/Silithid/Centaur/Other hostile being were to occur during my stay, I am capable and willing to take up arms against them._

_If you were below the age of majority for your race (if Death Knight, if you were below the age of majority for your race before you were ruthlessly bound by the Lich King's rule), please have your parents sign for you._

_Signed: (please sign in common)_

She signed with a flourish and marveled about how uptight the humans had become since she had last been into Stormwind. Well, Marisa supposed, times were hard. She handed the paper back to the smart-arse guard who looked over it lightly and sighed before filing it away in yet another crate and giving her back her bag.

"You may enter now," he said, and she nodded curtly at him and decided that the first street urchin she saw, she was going to kill it, screw the contract. They had taken her collapsible staff! That kind of thing was expensive and only a few supply wagons that were eligible for hijacking had them. Angry, Marisa stormed through the trade district, not bothering to switch her sight to the magical spectrum and look at the path Cony had taken, looking for a street urchin.

On a corner she found a scrawny man begging, his arms outstretched. Grinning, she walked up to him as if to give him coin and his eyes lit up, a faint smile changing his face. Marisa pulled out her sword in one swift movement and plunged it deep into his chest. He looked down, fear and surprise twisting his dirty face into a grimace of pain, and then caught her eyes. She made sure that the last thing he saw was her hungry, evil eyes.

He dropped, lifeless, onto the paved street floor and Marisa pulled her sword out of him, wiping it clean on his shorts. Partially sated, she looked around for an inn, finding one just at the end of the street. It looked posh, but Marisa liked her comforts. Perhaps she would go and find a brothel somewhere, to further assert her control over people in general. However, the idea of bedding some nameless, faceless man or woman didn't excite her that much. She wanted Cony.

Frustrated, she paid the innkeeper woman and went to her room, jumping onto the feather bed and laying on her back awhile, still fully clothed. Deciding to actually check the magical spectrum, she lazily shifted her vision and choked a little. The air around her was full of Cony, saturated with her- she had been here. She had been here for a very long time, in the grand scope of things, and recently, too. Excited, Marisa leapt out of bed and surveyed the whole inn. The loft above the stables and the stables themselves were her hotspots, the kitchens, all over the streets of Stormwind. The newest trail was one leading back out of the city, mingling with the trail of two weak mages.

Emboldened by her discovery, Marisa let herself smile for a moment before her stomach rumbled and she went down to the dining room, where she was treated with some delectable Stormwind Salmon in a creamy sauce served on a bed of herbed buttered potatoes. The wine was also excellent, much crisper and flavoursome, on many levels better than the stuff the Defias imported into their pubs. Nevertheless, she did yearn for a taste of her more sordid life, and the woman soon found herself treading Stormwind as the night descended in search of a decent brothel.

Some poor person was going to be on the receiving end of a great deal of repressed sexual tension tonight.

-

"Stop it, Rebecca!" Conyeri moaned, sweat beading off her forehead.

"Why should I?" The girl asked, pausing to look at the groom seriously. "You said you wanted me to…"

"It didn't mean this…" Conyeri gestured to the upturned cart. "I asked you to help pull it _out_ of the mud, not push it further in!"

"Sorry," she murmured, not sorry at all. They looked at the little wooden contraption and sighed. Lady Ashcroft was waiting in the carriage, but Conyeri had wanted to check out the cart anyway. It looked like it had been in the wars: there were slash marks, one wheel had been kicked in and the contents pilfered. There was blood, also, lots of blood.

"I wouldn't want to be the owners of this thing…" she sighed and tugged once more, the wood finally coming free of the thick, sludgy mud. "Gods, look!"

Rebecca stared, eyes wide. She had never seen a dead body before. "Who… what…" she stuttered, white as the dress she wore, which was now brown at the hem. She bent down and touched the face with one hand, shivering at the coldness of it. "It's an elf."

"A blood elf," Conyeri observed. "Coming down from Silvermoon, probably."

"Who do you think did it?" Rebecca asked, shuffling closer. Uneasy, the pseudo-boy looked at the blood elf's wounds. They were precise, twin neck slashes and a simple sword through the heart- it was not a thug that could kill that efficiently. A trained assassin or a rogue, perhaps.

_Or a Defias_.

She ignored that little voice.

"Probably people who don't care too much for the Horde." She lied. "Maybe traveling the opposite direction. This is neutral land, but it's quite close to Loch Modan, so dwarf presence is high. I don't really know."

"You know so much…" the Ashcroft daughter cooed, latching herself onto Conyeri's arm. Conscious of Lady Tight-Arse in the carriage, she wiped her hands off and left the carriage as it was. Passing Horde could bury that elf, not she. The sky shook suddenly, bringing a cacophony of thunder a few seconds later. Rebecca jumped a bit and tightened her grip on 'Connor's' arm as she was led back into the carriage and helped inside, to a prompt scolding from her mother for getting her dress dirty.

Once that was done, they continued along the road. It began to rain heavily and soon Conyeri was soaked through, sitting on the front of the carriage. Her hair and clothes stuck to her and chill sank deep into her bones, the winter leeching her of her strength. Her hands became numb on the reigns as night approached and her teeth began to chatter, but it was her job. She was being paid to go north and other than being rained on, she was doing it in style. The Ashcrofts would not let a 2-day journey be anything but comfortable- even now they were headed to a small Inn in Thesalmar once they got into Loch Modan, after traveling through Redridge into Searing Gorge and heading north steadily. The new terrain fascinated Cony to no end: the stark oranges of the mountains that melted into ashy grey soil and hardened earth in the Searing Gorge. They were nearly into Loch Modan and Cony was already killing for food, a bath, and a bed.

They passed through the Stonewrought Pass, but not without Cony turning back a little guiltily and looking at the lock she had had to pick. The gate was locked and Lady Ashcroft hadn't produced a key- presumably the fired coachman had owned it, so she'd slipped small set of thief's tools that she had kept on her person since Marzy had taught them how to pick locks out and quickly opened it. Nobody seemed to notice.

Once they got into Loch Modan, Rebecca got out of the carriage and came and sat at the front with her. Not by her doing, but after seeing her daughter shy from the horses, Lady Ashcroft had insisted that she be taught about horses and learned to tolerate them, and who better for the job than a groom?

"You're not actually going to ask me about horses, are you?" Conyeri asked knowledgably, her eyelids drooping, yawning. "Anyhow, it's too late for today."

"You can teach me when we get to Theddlmire."

"Thesalmar." She corrected, sighing as she peering into the gloom. She needed to light a lantern soon. "And trust me, I'm going to stuff my face and pass out as soon as we get there."

"You're so honest, Connor," she said, smiling. Gods, what did she ever do to deserve this attention? First from Marisa, and though Rebecca was obviously not a power-hungry magic-addicted sex fiend, she still hesitated at the attention, for good reasons. Rebecca thought she was a boy, and so obviously liked boys. When and if she found out, she'd do one of two things, and Cony couldn't decide which was worse: freak out and set the authorities on her, or roll with it and _keep_ pursuing her.

Oh, the conundrums of being young.

"What's the point in lying? You'd just pluck the truth out of me anyhow, or see me at the Inn." She shrugged and glanced at a signpost they passed. Not long now.

"Boys usually lie to big themselves up," she blushed. "Both metaphorically and physically. Where are we?"

"Put your glasses back on and you'd be able to read that signpost." She chided the girl, who merely made a silly face. "Another hour, maybe. I need to light the lantern, can you take the reins?"

"Me?" she looked shocked. "I can hardly stroke a horse, let alone drive a carriage!"

"Then you can light the lantern. Since it's rainy, you'll need to-"

"Connor, I'm a mage."

She looked dumbly at Rebecca for a moment before it dawned on her. "Ohhhhh, sorry," she said, embarrassed. "Mages conjure fire… forgot that a minute."

She rolled her eyes and the lantern at the front of the carriage burst into flame. Conyeri realized something. "If you're a mage, why not just make a portal to your house?"

"Well, good question. Firstly, I'm a mage in training and portals are forbidden outside class in case they go wrong. Second, portals only go to main cities. And third…"

"Third?"

"Third, we'd end up in Ashenvale if I was doing it." Cony chortled. "Seriously… I suck at arcane magic."

"What school of magic are you specifying in?"

"I thought fire, just to piss off my mother."

"Piss off? What bad language from such a high-born young lady." Conyeri teased her, chivvying the horses a bit.

"Mother dearest is too busy thinking of ways to make our holidays boring." She snorted. "She won't care what I say or do out of her presence."

"Say or _do_?" she raised her eyebrows. "You'll be going off the rails once you become legal, then? Felweed addiction, prostitution, wanton use of magic…" she surveyed Rebecca. "I can see it."

"Shut up!" she said, slapping Conyeri on the shoulder. "Never wanton magic."

"So just the drugs and the prostitution?"

"I didn't mean that!"

"Okay, whatever you say," she put her eyes back on the road. "Do some magic."

"Why?"

"I've never seen fire magic before." She thought back to Marisa. She didn't do fire magic mostly, though she probably could. Her 'lessons' had actually had some teaching in them, though it was really Marisa showing off with her magic and forcing herself onto Conyeri. Pushing the thoughts out of her mind, she let herself watch in awe, not fear, as Rebecca made fire do all sorts of interesting things. It got bigger, smaller, changed colour, split into different bits, did cartwheels and exploded into little fireworks, brightening the landscape behind them.

"Pretty, huh?" she said, twirling a fiery serpent around her fingers. "These are kid's tricks, though. If I had my license… when I graduate… I'll be able to kill entire armies of scourge with a flick of my wrist."

"You're yawning, miss." She said, frowning. "If you fall off the coach, your mother'll have my head."

"Don't be polite all of a sudden. Rebecca. Becca if you want. And I'm fine… I just used up a lot of mana."

"On the tricks?"

"I did say I was only it training."

Cony laughed and an idea struck her. "Do you want some of mine?"

Rebecca's eyes shot open. "What?"

"My… mage friend used to take mana from me when she was out." _Mage friend_. She threw up a little in her mouth at calling Marisa her friend.

The two of them sat in silence for ages, Rebecca just staring, her eyes wide and searching. Cony took the hint that she had said something wrong and probably shouldn't have brought that up. "Sorry… if you don't want to or think it's wrong…"

"It's… not illegal…" Rebecca said uneasily. "But… you were close, you and your mage-friend?"

"You could say that."

"Harvesting mana from other people is black magic, but giving it willingly is not… but you and her were…"

"What?"

"Having sex, right?"

_Oh, gods._

Some flashbacks threatened her, but didn't surface, thankfully. Rebecca was looking at her, partially hurt, moderately curious and a little scared and repulsed was mixed in there.

"Um… does it matter?"

"You can't take unwilling mana from someone with white magic without… sex."

"Ah."

Her eyes were sad. "I knew that you weren't a virgin… but…"

"Rebecca. Shut up."

Lights rose from behind a hillock. They were close to Thesalmar. "Don't tell me to shut up. Are you two still together? Is she waiting for you? Are you running away from her?"

"The latter." Cony replied dryly.

"She's a rogue mage, right? Then she was just using you to get her fix! You fuelled her magic addiction… was it for the sex? Was it that good?"

"You don't know what you're getting into." She warned in her darkest voice. "And you don't want to."

"Try me, stablehand."

Anger seeped in with the rainwater covering Cony at how naïve Rebecca was being, and jealous too. "Rebecca," she said, swallowing her pride. "I was raped. Repeatedly and with abuse mixed in, by my 'mage-friend'."

She really didn't want to pull the 'pity me, I was raped and abused' plug, but she was irate and soaking wet and freezing cold. Rebecca was a _child_, rich and immature and cooped up in her mage tower and her stuffy house. She knew nothing, nothing of what Conyeri had been through, was still going through. She was stupid, arrogant, conceited-

"So?"

That was not what she had expected to hear. Mouth agape, she looked at Rebecca, whose eyes were firmly fixed on her and burning with a fiery passion that had not been present before. "You're obviously over it,"

"How can you…?"

"Stop it, please. You pulled a pity plug to win an argument, which means that you're not telling the entire truth, surely, and also you think _I'm_ stupid, which I'm not, by the way." She smirked a bit through the rain as Thesalmar proper came into sight. It was a bustling, plentiful dwarvern town, with snug homes cut into the rock and an ambience of stalwart resistance about it, though it was merry. Rebecca was _smart_. More than that, she was scarily perceptive. "Connor, please, treat me as an equal. Not a mistress, not a little girl, and equal."

"Okay."

"That implies that you'll actually tell me why you won't let me kiss you."

"Gods, Rebecca? Is rape not enough justification for aversion to sex?" She cried out, perhaps a bit too loud. "Have you ever been raped?"

"No, and I don't plan to, but I _have_ experienced control."

Conyeri paused and bit back another explosion of incredulous excuses. "Control."

"Mages… we get it a lot." She became older. "When you're young, you control the magic. You bend it totally to your will; acting like it's a thing, a toy. But then you get older and your relationship with magic becomes more complex. You lose the control, the sureness, to a more convoluted point of view, which is unfamiliar and uncomfortable to you.

"Some mages are consumed by their need for control. Any way they can- sex, murder, magic- it's a flaw with us, just like warriors have bloodlust. For those already inclined such, whether hereditary or due to their environment, it can drive a person insane."

"_Miss Du'Paige speaks of you a lot," he admitted. "She is insane."_

Alt had said it before, that Marisa wasn't quite rational, but it hadn't really concerned her. Now…

"She's coming for you, isn't she? Your mage. That's why you're running."

_80 percent right._

"Yes," she replied softly. "We need to get into the Inn now. Your brother will probably be asleep and your mother will be irate, and we have still much ground to cover."

"But we just got talking!"

"We can talk more tomorrow."

"No, I want to talk today." She insisted.

Cony sighed, knowing she wouldn't sleep until late tonight. "Fine… come to wherever I have to sleep."

"Is that an invitation?" Thin eyebrows rose. Gods, this girl just couldn't resist, could she? Did she have a one-track mind?

"For talk." She said curtly. "Rebecca, you know I can't-"

"Can't or won't or don't want to?"

"All of the above."

"Bastard."

"Language. A friend of mine once said that profanity shows lack of developed vocabulary,"

She smiled. "They sound like a tight-ass."

"Oh, he was… tightly assed, for sure." She thought of Alt and his great metal bulk. That all seemed so far away. "Help me with the carriage."

"Pssh, no way. I'm going to eat myself to stupor." Rebecca groaned as her stomach grumbled.

"Good, then we won't have to talk."

"I'm never too stuffed to talk."

"Then gods help us." She rolled her eyes and halted the horses. The dwarves had great respect for animals, and the Inn's groom lavished over the Thane and the Baron, giving them the best he had. They conversed for a while as the Ashcrofts paid for rooms and supper, then Conyeri wished him goodnight and entered the Inn. It was nice, cozy and well lit, with clean wooden floors and tapestries hanging on the walls.

"Connor," lady Ashcroft addressed her. "I was informed that you have no problems sleeping in the stable-loft."

"No, my lady." She smiled while glaring daggers at Cefflan, who was awake and in a mischievous mood. The two of them got on quite well: Conyeri thought it was that the only male Ashcroft child had always wanted an older brother and ended up with two sisters. "It would suit me just fine."

"Then we will eat now." She gestured to the table being prepared. Since there was no servant's kitchen as this inn- The Ram's Horn Tavern and Stayhouse- they would eat together. Not really knowing much about nobility, she didn't know if eating with one's servants was a usual occurrence, but she supposed not. They sat and spoke little, each tired in their own ways, though Rebecca kept looking her way. Cony wolfed food down with three flagons of mead and felt much better for it, though she'd have a headache in the morning. The loft, being part of a stable cut into rock, was warm and she was about to fall into a food and alcohol induced stupor when she heard the creaking of the ladder.

"Connor?" Rebecca asked, her voice searching."

"mmmph." She groaned and rolled over, annoyed. "Aww, Becca, we have to talk t'night?"

"You said we would." She yawned, crossing to the bed. "My mother is asleep and Cefflan is being taught to gamble by the dwarves. It's driving Jeyvs insane."

"Jeyvs?"

"Our butler." She explained, yawning again and sitting down on the end. "He's nice enough…"

"Mmm," she agreed, not having known his name. "Go to bed, Rebecca, you're about to drop off as it is."

"But you said we could talk… I want to know about you."

"I'm your stableboy, you shouldn't want to know about me."

"But I do." She shrugged. "You're not just a stableboy. I know it." Conyeri froze and looked at her. Did she know? How could she have found out? Shit, was she about to get caught? "You have a history."

"An unpleasant one. You don't-"

"I do."

"Stop being difficult about this, Rebecca. If it placates you, after my parents died, I went to Stormwind and became a stablehand. There we go."

"But you'd only been there a month when we came. _And_ I saw you pick the gate lock." She accused 'him', triumph stifled by another yawn.

"There are many pickpockets in Stormwind. You learn some tricks. Before I got my job as a stableboy…"

"For how long?"

"Um… maybe six months?"

"Your accent is too strong for you to have been in Stormwind seven months."

"Is this an iterrogation?" She asked, sitting up in bed.

"I have the right to know if my stableboy is a crook."

"I'm not."

"Your eyes flicker when you lie," she said, and for a horrible moment Cony pictured her as Alt, all metal and wires, a horrible malformation of his once sacred race, unable to ever properly feel emotion, enslaved to the Defias. She regarded Rebecca- she was more dangerous than she had realized. She may be all of those horrible things she'd thought earlier, but she wasn't a lovestruck teenager with a crush- she was suspicious.

"How do you know that?"

"Your eyes have been flickering all day."

"But now does that indicate I'm lying?" she kept the conversation going desperately, to avoid the question. She could very well lose her way north, and she _knew_ it was with the Ashcrofts. She couldn't lose this route away from Marisa and the Defias.

"You're stalling." She smirked. "You're not so quick, Connor the stableboy. Though I think no less of you for it." Rebecca shifted herself and closed in for the kill, but Conyeri put her hand over the girl's mouth.

"Becca, I… uh." She thought of something. "I'm not into girls."

She stopped and recoiled, looking shocked. "What?"

"I like boys." She said, her eyes not flickering, because it was the truth. Conyeri did like boys- she had fancied many of the sons of neighbouring farms when she had been younger. Then they were sent off to war and she stopped really caring for them. She did like boys though, definitely, but she guessed that girls were ok also, but she didn't want to think about relationships with either sex at the moment, even if she was over what Marisa had done to her (which she wasn't.).

"Oh." Rebecca moved off the bed apologetically. "I did wonder. You were so charming and, well… a bit girlish… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… I didn't mean to offend."

"It's fine." She said curtly. "Don't, ah, spread that around, okay? Your brother might not be as comfortable with me, and your mother would be off with my head."

"Okay…" Gods, she looked so disappointed. Cony felt sorry for lying to her, both about her past and her singular interest in boys, but all the same, she couldn't let herself be found out. The world was built on lies. "You don't like my brother, do you?"

"Gods, no!" she was relieved. "He's eleven, Rebecca."

"That doesn't stop some people." She said warily. "I bet your mage-friend was older than you."

"Twenty… four, I think."

"That's a nine year difference."

"Seven."

"How old are you?" Damn, she hadn't meant to say that- she forgotten she looked younger as a boy.

"Seventeen."

Rebecca laughed a bit, but stopped herself. "You don't look seventeen."

"You don't look like you think only about sex- you can't judge a book by its cover."

"I do not only think about sex!" She said indignantly. "I just liked you."

"Past tense?" she pouted, confident in her security now. Now that Rebecca thought she wasn't interested in girls at all, she could hopefully establish a friendship. She missed her friends, especially Geylan.

"I guess I can't now? Since you're… can I call you gay?" Cony frowned at the word.

"Where I come from, that's used as an offensive term," she said, thinking how the Defias would shout it as an insult at each other, even though many of them liked men themselves. In fact, she realized, the Defias really didn't care what they had sex with, at the end of the day, be it male or female. Had she liked girls before joining the Defias, or was that a side effect of being there? Or had Marisa done it to her?

"Sorry…" Rebecca apologized. "I guess, uh, I should go. Long journey and everything."

"Let's not part awkwardly."

"That's going to be hard." The Ashcroft pointed out. From outside, lightning struck. The thunder was loud and the lightning came right after the flash- it was close. Really close. Rebecca whimpered and the lightning kept striking, closer and closer. She could hear dimly mountaineers outside, shouting at each other. Winter storms were horrible. Rebecca's face was whiter than even usual. For a mage, she was easily scared. "I don't want to go out there…" she whined, clutching Cony's bed sheets with scarily pallid knuckles.

"You can sleep on the other bed. She motioned to the one that the groom was not sleeping on. "He told me he was 'goin' ter git roarin' drunk an' pass out dunstairs'."

"Oh… she jumped as lightning struck again and crossed to the bed. "It smells horrible."

"Deal with it."

"Can't I sleep with you?"

Cony snorted. She just did not know when to stop, did she? "I don't trust you in my bed, sorry."

"I won't do anything, I promise," she pleaded. "But yours is warm and doesn't smell of stuff that comes out of dwarves."

"No."

"Please?"

"No means no." she said curtly, and then made the mistake of looking at Rebecca, all white and wide-eyed and jumpy. "Oh, gods, I am a softy."

"Thank you." She said sincerely, slipping her shoes off. "I promise I won't do anything."

"You'd better not." She warned. "And we're going top to toe. Grab his pillow. I used to do this at sleepovers all the time."

"Sleepovers?" Shit, had she just said that? _Sleepovers_? The least manly thing one can do short of giving birth. "Connor…"

"I was a lot younger!" she said, embarrassed by Rebecca's mirthful face. "Don't look at me like that…"

"I think it makes you cuddly." She said, looking at the groom's pillow disdainfully before taking it off his bed and getting under the already-warn covers. "Being g… sorry, liking boys and going to sleepovers. It makes you almost one of the girls."

_You have no idea_… She laughed a bit and said goodnight, conscious of the unpleasant coldness of Rebecca's feet.

-

"I don' like this place," Dez said, looking around at the wooden buildings. "Sumthin' aint right 'bout it."

"Not so loud." Geylan told him as they walked through the village. "Where the hell are the locals? It's only eleven, some should still be up… guards and such."

"Remind me why we're even here?" Harrman clutched the hilt of his sword.

"We're looking for Councilman Smithers… he's supposed to be operating on the town council, somehow rallying the people here to the Syndicate." Geylan replied. "Though why they're interested in this little village in Silverpine is a mystery…"

"Maybe there's… gold 'ere? Or they 'ave some powrful mages?" Dez jumped a little at a crow cawing on a roof. "Or they're gonna use this place to creep everyone out to death."

"Shh…" Harrman stealthed and Geylan followed, leaving Dez the only visible one there.

"Aw, don't leave me-" He was cut off his complaint as a speeding blur of vicious claws and teeth barreled into him from the shadows, knocking him clean over and onto the ground. He gave an almighty push at the thing and it sprung off him, but in that short time, about twenty of them had come out of nowhere to surround them. They were worgen, huge and gangly, covered in fur and very angry-looking. They looked around for escape but there was none.

The fight began and soon fur was flying everywhere. Harrman and Geylan took the worgen down swiftly, slashing and stabbing vital places with ease, and Dez was roaring and swinging his sword around in a storm of blades, cutting them down… but there were so many and this could not go on forever. Geylan sidestepped one massive paw and sunk his dagger into a furry chest, not waiting, turning to his next opponent who lunged at him, massive jaws open wide. He fell under its weight and struggled, stabbing it in the back, but it didn't even feel it, sinking its teeth into his shoulder, preparing to rip a chunk out. Dez came to the rescue by seeing him and chopping its head clean off. He stood up and winced as blood began pouring from his wound. There were still about ten left and they were coming from all angles.

Harrman twirled and ducked and danced a deadly dance, his sword and dagger wounding and maiming, his young face beaded with sweat and his muscles protesting at each movement. Down they went, up they came, again and again, meeting the warm metal of his blades, drenched in blood. A paw pulled his leg out from under him and he cried out, a dying worgen thinking to bring him down with it. He hacked its paw off, but he was down and several of them descended on him, ripping his armour, and he thought he might have lost a finger.

Dez stood, panting, charging for his next kill. Blood pumped in his ears as he beheaded, opened, chopped and sliced the worgen, working their numbers down. There were only a couple now, converged on Harrman's struggling body. Dez took care of them, his rage increased after seeing his friend fall in battle, worgen falling around him, his wounds forgotten. Cut, pierce, and hack to pieces, blood flying everywhere, gleaming yellow eyes dilating with fear at the sight of this unstoppable demon. He was the only one left; there was only he and the enemy, to be annihilated, torn from the face of the earth, cast into oblivion.

And then there were none left.

He picked Harrman's limp body from under a bloody pile of monsters and looked around for Geylan, though he was in a daze. He could only see worgen, just their black fur, and no sign of his friend. There was no time to waste in the village of worgen, so he trudged on, out of that place, carrying Harrman like a baby in his arms, before collapsing by a tree and falling into a deep, deep sleep.

Fire crackled somewhere near; its warmth suffused Geylan, his decimated body yearning to be closer to it. He quite wanted to go to sleep, but he could acutely feel cold hands tending his many wounds, tutting over the state of him. His eyes opened a crack, but everything was too blurred, there were only hazy smudges of light and darkness.

"No, don't open your eyes…" a voice said. It was raspy and slimy, the common sounding dead in its mouth. "I can't believe I'm actually helping a _human_…"

"Ngghh…?" blood gurgled in Geylan's throat and he coughed, his ribs unbearably painful, tears streaking from his bloody eyes.

"Shut up." His saviour told him, irritably applying bandages to his wounds. "You would be left for worgen fodder if not for me. And I'm only doing his out of gratitude- you helped me greatly with my job." He almost felt her smile, for it was a female voice. "The Pyrewood council is all but wiped out, thanks to you and your friends."

He was left alone after that. His wounds mended fast with the aid of whatever the woman had done to them, and come dawn, he felt well enough to open his eyes, and almost screamed. It was an undead who was stoking the fire. She turned to him and smirked. "Never seen a Forsaken before, little human? I'm Faerleia, and by all means and at any other time, I would kill you gladly."

"Hmmm?" he asked tiredly. "Uh… my friends?"

"The big one took the little one out of the village. He fought with such vigour after he thought he'd died, I have never seen such in a member of the Alliance before."

"Not Alliance," he grimaced. "Defias."

"Ahhh." Faerleia grinned, taking some fresh bandages out of a leather backpack on the floor. "You need to get out of here by next nightfall, or that worgen bite will effect you. Bastard Arugal…"

"Huh?"

"The villagers here have all had their blood cursed by Archmage Arugal. They turn into worgen by night."

"And by day?"

"They are humans… but you care nothing for Alliance, anyway, so it shouldn't make you guilty. You killed a lot of them for me."

"Oh… you're welcome?"

She laughed, and the sounds grated on Geylan's ears- it sounded like a dying cat being dragged across a bed of nails and a chalkboard. "Now, get out before I have to kill you."

"I can barely…" he pushed himself up from the chair he had been seated in, his legs wobbling. "Ugh…"

"You took a great deal of damage." She said nonchalantly. He limped over to the table and panted at the effort. A triangle-headed stave of some importance hung in a case on the wall; this was a town hall, and several such artifacts were displayed here. He broke the glass and propped the stave under his arm, finding it made the perfect crutch. The undead merely regarded him coldly and he limped out into the village to find it… quite normal.

There were a few humans about, at the doors of their houses, looking at the pile of dead worgen. Some wept, others just stared. Children demanded to see but mothers ushered them back inside. Nobody came near the town hall, thankfully, and Geylan kept in the early-morning shadows as he hobbled painfully out of the village, keeping a low profile. After some time he found Dez and Harrman, the smaller man propped up against a giant tree, his clothes ripped to create makeshift dressings. He smiled meekly when Geylan approached. "Wild night?"

"Very," he rasped, looking at Dez. "Is he…?"

"Ok? Yes… but he's completely out of it. I saw him last night after he thought I'd gone down, before I passed out, Shaw… he was a demon. Cutting them down so fast, so angry…" his eyes fell to Dez's breathing body. "I'm honoured that he fought for me."

"As am I." Geylan painfully sat down by a tree. "What do we do now, then?"

"You're supposed to know."

"We need to get out of Silverpine, for sure…" he mused. "I don't like this place, at all, and we probably killed Smithers last night. The people there turn into worgen at night because of some blood curse."

"Why didn't you tell us that before?"

"I didn't know. My rescuer told me, but she didn't want me to stick around."

"Oh." Harrman checked Dez's temperature. "He's fine, I think, but won't be conscious for a while. We'd have to carry him."

"We can't, physically."

"Then we wait here." He sighed. "I don't want to either, but…"

Geylan agreed reluctantly and curled up into a ball under the tree, cursing his ribs and falling into a disturbing sleep.

_The light was low in the barn, but it was warm and snug. The bed had two people in it, one a boy and the other a girl, sleeping top to toe. Geylan blinked, unsure of what he was seeing. The boy… he looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place him. A pleasant, freckled face with curly brown hair… he couldn't get a better look._

_A woman was in a brothel, tall and black-haired, with a severe beauty. He did not recognize her at all, but she was with a man, in bed, her face angry and wanting. For reasons unknown, the room had three cats in and two birds on the windowsill. They watched, unable to leave._

_In an office he recognized rather well, a middle-aged man sat, weeping softly. He stopped as an abrupt knock on the door startled him, but allowed entry. In swept a man moulded by years of grief and war, his face grim._

"_Shaw, you foolish man."_

_It was sweltering hot. Banging, soldering, the general din of forgery, goblins skittering around excitedly. The zeppelin was progressing faster and faster._

_In a darkened room. "Patrick…" the metal-man said dangerously. "You play with my time."_

_The sky was blackened, casting a massive shadow over white stone. Everywhere, there was nothing. The gallows swished and swayed in the breeze, newly hanged bodies making the wood creak._

_The swift clunk of the executioner opening the floor of the wooden structure. Crying, pleading. Bars and guards. Dead bodies littering the streets. The shadow over the city…_

"Wake up, Shaw." Dez was a sight for sore eyes. He looked down at Geylan. "You're having a shitty dream. Writhin' an' all."

"Oh… He sat up and winced as his ribs and shoulder ached. The sun was beginning to set. "I've been out for a while."

"Yeh, nearly the whole day." Harrman said, handing him stale bread. "Eat up."

"We need to get out of here." Geylan replied immediately. "Now."

"Why?" Dez asked, tending to a gash in his leg. "I know it's creepy an' all, but none in Southshore'll miss us…"

"We just… ah, you know when you _know_ you need to do something… without an obvious reason…" He struggled to describe the feeling in his gut. "For example… we needed to go north. Now we're north… too north. We need to wait."

Dez stood up with some help and Harrman offered him a hand, which he took and leaned heavily on his crutch-staff. "Yeh're soundin' awful worried."

"I am, Dez… and I don't like it. All of this, these things I can't explain."

They set off, a shoddy parade of war veterans, hobbling and wincing on torn muscles and bent bones. Harrman was lamenting at his loss of a finger. "How will I do all the fiddly things required of me now?"

"We'll find a priest, don't worry." Geylan lied, his eyes screwed in pain. "I'm more anxious about getting out of Silverpine, and about what we'll do now. Councilman Smithers was our only lead."

"We'll find something else," Harrman assured him, flexing his fingers, gazing at the stump of his ring finger. "I never much wanted a wife, anyway…"

"Yeh're nineteen, Harr, yeh dun't need a wife." Dez rolled his eyes. "By my reckonin', we'll be out of here in about an hour… at this pace."

"You mean this lack of pace." Geylan grimaced. He was disturbed by his dream, or rather, dreams. He was not stupid, and knew that something was going on that he wasn't privy to, a reason why he was dreaming of those things… he hadn't thought of his father in a whole year, and to see him again now did not bode well.

The mist began to clear as they descended into Alterac, following the road until Hillsbrad, tired and still bleeding slightly. Southshore's town hall's clock came into view over the horizon, accompanied by the sounds of a town beginning to fill with pub-goers and evening vendors. The small house on the outskirts of town that they were renting under their pseudonyms was quiet and dim, cold with two days of no heating, but it was the best they had. As soon as the door was opened and the lamp was lit, a feeling of utmost exhaustion suffused all three of them- but there were growling stomachs to feed and wounds to dress. A healer would ask questions, and they could handle the wounds- the Defias were not stingy with their provisions, even if this was a low-importance mission, and they had a full medical kit on-hand.

Their supper, due to tiredness, was a meager meal of cold meats and bread, augmented by a warm cup of tea- they knew that they had to stay awake, if not only to tend to their wounds. Harrman bound Dez's slashes while Geylan tended to his own, before helping Harrman with his severed finger. It was a stump with jagged bone protruding from it- he felt sorry for the boy, it would hurt like hell- but he could hardly concentrate. His shoulder wound was pulsating oddly, driving him insane. Dez noticed.

"You okay, Shaw?" he said, voice gravelly, taking his bloodied clothes off and sponging himself down. "Yeh're jumpy."

"I'm just feeling a bit… odd." He admitted, trying to concentrate on stitching the skin on Harrman's finger. "Probably just tired, Dez."

"I 'ope so…" He looked at Geylan seriously. "You took a big bite… are you sure nothin' got infected?"

"No… but the wound hasn't coloured… it doesn't _look_ infected."

"Whatever you say, Shaw."

"We should sleep now." Harrman spoke up, standing and looking longingly at the small bedroom the three of them shared, with its three beds and dingy fireplace that was always too damp to get a proper fire going in. They collapsed into their beds with a collective sigh of contentment.

-

"Ah, Southshore," Rebecca took a deep breath in. "I like this town."

"Why is that, then?" Conyeri asked as someone fell through a window of an inn to their right in the midst of a brawl. "It seems a bit… uncivilized."

"It is, which is what I like about it. You'll see when we reach the manor… if you don't die of boredom during the first couple of hours."

In a darkened window, a small, inconspicuous house, pushed back from the bright lights and the boardwalk, a flash of something familiar. Conyeri rubbed her eyes and blinked, peering inside. Nothing. Uneasy, she kept her gaze on that little house until they were out of sight and truly absorbed by the verdant countryside. Rebecca was rambling, but she didn't hear her, eyes fixed on the road ahead, mind turbulent, deeply upset by something she wasn't even sure had happened. Now that she was here, she felt as though something was missing, or that she was missing something. Her life was a mess of frayed and loose ends and someone was beginning to knot them together, one by one, tightening around her neck.

She swallowed uncomfortably at that visualization and stayed silent, watching the rolling hills. Only a small, grassy path marked the way to Manor Ashcroft, and as it got dark the track widened and became harder, the earth compacted. Rebecca did not lie- the Manor itself was magnificent- but it held no place for her. No place at all.

Delighted to be off the road, Lady Ashcroft led her children away and into the serene brightness of the grand hall, leaving Conyeri to stable the horses. The butler, Jeyvs, introduced her to the serving-staff, who were merry and welcoming and rather interested in her, though she supposed it was because not much went on up here, nestled into the mountains of Alterac. She listened to the gossip and found that the first snows of winter were expected soon, making her think of the festivals that would be going on back home in Westfall- Winter's Veil, when even the militia of Sentinel Hill would drink a glass of eggnog and pull a few crackers. Sighing, she stabled the horses, stored the cart and fell asleep on the simple bed in a little room off the main stable.

She woke later than usual; the sun already high in the sky when she changed clothes and began her morning duties, caring for the horses and general upkeep of the stables. She was, she learned, to also act as an errand boy, killing two birds with one stone. The taskmaster, a burly man with a slight walleye but a kind voice, told her that there was a trip to and from Southshore to be made every two days, in order to pick up fresh ingredients and other things the household needed. She was to be entrusted with this task- though, she remembered, perhaps that was not a good thing, the shadow in the window playing on her mind.

The trip was shorter without the carriage, Conyeri riding the Thane and holding the Baron beside it, who was to act as a pack animal- a duty far below the magnificent horse, but necessary. She felt the jingling coin purse in her pocket as she joined the midday market throng in Southshore, weaving in and out of all sorts of people, seeking the stalls that the taskmaster had told her to buy from.

"Get yer fresh veg 'ere! Haaaalf price!"

"Finest dairy in all 'o Hillsbrad!"

"Bespoke cobblers, Jakan and Enrik, finest leathers, cloths, mail made to order!"

Conyeri's heart stopped as she heard a very familiar voice through the din. Turning, eyes wide, she beheld Geylan and Harrman, standing by a stall filled with shoes of all manner and size. Panic rose within her- were they sent to find her? Bring her back to the Defias? Was Marisa around, also? The market was set out in rows, and as luck would have it, the butcher came right next to the cobbler, and she needed to visit him. Would the Ashcrofts notice if their meat wasn't from their same butcher? She didn't want to risk it, and took a deep breath, walking up to the stall, one eye permanently trained on Geylan.

"What can I do for you, lad?" The butcher in his bloodstained apron asked.

"I'm buying for the Ashcrofts," she explained, taking the coin purse out and finding the right amount for the meat. "Their normal order." He nodded and smiled, picking some of the best cuts from his frozen display and wrapping them neatly. She handed him the money, thinking she'd gotten away with it.

"Cony?" The voice came from behind her and she wheeled around, coming nose-to-nose with Dez. "By the gods-"

She put a hand over his mouth. "Dez, shut up."

"Oh, Cny, wt hpnd?" She removed her hand, making a quiet sign with her hand. "Cony, what happened?"

"Not now, please," she implored him. "Later. Without Geylan or Harrman. Please." He nodded in understanding, just looking at her desperate expression enough to still his excitement. "Come to the stables of Manor Ashcroft, after dark."

"Okay." He whispered, and then raised his voice. "Sorry, lad, didn't see ye there!" And then he headed over to Geylan and Harrman. Relieved but perturbed, head spinning with questions, she melted back into the crowd and purchased the rest of the provisions, dazed. What were they doing north, pretending to be cobblers?

She returned to the manor and waited anxiously for night to fall. Rebecca didn't visit her, which she was party thankful for due to the privacy, but she was missing her company. Soon, though, she might have more company than she'd bargained for. Suddenly, she was angry. After all the effort she'd put in getting away from the Defias, they still found here! She just wanted a normal, boring life, and here she was sleeping in a barn in Alterac disguised as a boy, wanted for murder! She kicked a bucket, spilling the water inside all over the hay, and watched it seep through. One of the horses whinnied but she ignored it, storming back into her little room, her senses flaring up. She looked around and saw nobody, which meant it must be someone stealthed.

From the shadows emerged a face she hadn't ever wanted to see again- Nightly, the pompous rogue. His face was a smirk of triumph. "Hello, Conyeri DeHayersae."

"Hello yourself," she retorted, staring at him. He was visibly less well fed, haggard and his clothes were worn from traveling.

"I followed the hapless band of heroes up here, on the order of VanCleef himself." He said smugly. "To find you and bring you back. Once a Defias, a Defias until you die."

"Not after what you were doing!" she snarled, thinking of Alt. "I never condoned any of it, and yet I put up with it all, thinking that for some reason I had justified myself. But no, you just had to have your cake, eat it and bake another! I know right and wrong, and the metal-men are _wrong_. Making innocent people into zombies is _wrong_. Everything about the Defias is _wrong_!"

"And so are you," he said evenly, leaning against the wall. "The Defias survive, even thrive, while Stormwind is whittled down, bit by bit, and what we do, we do to make ends meet." He raised an eyebrow. "I didn't come here to let you fight your own morals."

"You came here to kill me or take me back."

"Correct, but I'd rather not kill you. You're awfully pretty, and once Miss Du'Paige is finished with you…" he let his voice trail and the meaning hand in the air.

"Never, you…" hands clenched, she wondered when Dez would get here. "You…"

"Insult me all you like, but I remain unconvinced. How many times did you say no to Miss Du'Paige, and yet you still let her have her way." He grinned. "Perhaps you _liked_ it. Got a taste for it. Well, women are all good, Conyeri, but wait until you have a real man. _Then_ you'll forget all about girls."

"A real man? Who were you thinking of? Seeing as you don't qualify…"

"Shut up!" he hissed, coming off the wall with his hand on his dagger. "We'd rather you came back of your own 'free' will, rather than me having to kill you."

"I'm not going back." She said, fear and adrenaline rising in her. He smiled, as if to say she'd made the foolish choice, and lunged with incredible speed. Conyeri barely sidestepped in time- he was trained and she was not- she was way out of her depth. Nightly was a blaze of deadly metal, and each attack she ducked or dodged was immediately followed by another, harder, faster one. From her boot came a small dagger, which would not do to combat him properly. All she could do was hope that Dez arrived sooner rather than later.

Into the corral, sending the horses stamping and blanching in their stalls, wove the two fighters, Conyeri forced back with thrusts and stabs that expertly aimed for her vital areas. She ducked a neck slash only to be kneed in the stomach, sent rolling over the hay, clutching the area and gasping. She scrambled up and had to throw herself to the floor again, ribs protesting.

"Die already!" Nightly growled. "Stop running!"

A terrified shriek came from the large stable doors and Conyeri wheeled around, seeing Rebecca standing there. She cursed in her head, as many languages as she knew, foul words of hatred for that girl, overriding the concern she felt for her life. Nightly stopped mid-hack to see if she was a threat. "That is too cute."

"Who are you, trespasser? I demand you get off my grounds!" she said, and Conyeri marveled at the fake confidence. She saw the trembling and Nightly would too. "I-If you don't leave immediately, I'll call the guards!"

"Gods…" Conyeri mumbled. "You're a mage, Rebecca. Turn his loins to ice or something."

Though it hadn't been serious, she brightened up and threw a spell at Nightly, who looked at the small blue bolt skeptically before moving aside. It sailed past him and hit the floor, leaving an icy patch. Rebecca, annoyed, started a volley of them, which he gleefully danced around, letting her wear herself down. "Stop it, don't waste your mana."

"What?" she asked. Nightly saw the opening and took it, lunging for Conyeri's throat, and she was too slow to fully move. Instead, she ended up bringing him down on top of her, his heavier body pinning her down.

"Stupid little girl." He spat at her, his nasty breath covering her face. His hands closed around her neck, attempting to strangle her to death. Rebecca ran over, but he took one hand off and expertly threw a small knife that caught her in the stomach. She shouted out in pain and Cony felt a surge of anger and desperation that powered her to jab at Nightly's eyes. The grip on her throat kept on tightening and he showed no sign of stopping, so she switched tactics and decided that Marisa's lessons had been useful after all. Shifting her talent away, she drew upon the small pool of mana she had remaining, pushing it through her thumbs and into his eyes. He yelped and his grip lessened only a tiny bit, but that was enough for her to draw a breath and kick her knee to his crotch.

Out from under him, she remorselessly snatched the throwing dagger from Rebecca's stomach, which made her cry again as she seized in pain on the barn floor, and stuck it into Nightly's neck, repeatedly, until his yelp became and gurgle and his body stopped moving. Out of breath and struggling to pull air into her arms, she surveyed the stable in front of her, eyes wide and bloody pumping, pulling adrenaline around her body. A creak from the door told her that someone else had entered.

"Cony?" Dez asked, drinking in the sight of one dead body and one wounded one. "What-"

"The Defias." She said shortly. "Though you'd know all about them."

"What? What's 'appened?"

"Are you simple or something?" she asked him, incredulous. "He followed _you_ up here to bring me back, dead or alive!"

"We didn't even know ye were up 'ere!" he retorted. "Marisa wanted rid of all those real friendly with ye, so she sent us up here ta spy on the Synd'cat."

"Oh," she said numbly. "I need to help Rebecca." She remembered the girl on the floor by their feet, squirming in pain. "She's never had a knife in the stomach before."

"Stayin' at a fancy manor… ye've got ter tell me 'bout everything, okay?"

"In time," she bent down and held the struggling girl still, whose large grey eyes were flitting around in panic. "Calm down."

"Connor! Connor! There's a knife in my stomach!" she said, scared.

"No, I took it out," she replied, catching Dez's odd look. "I need to clean the wound. It's quite deep but a clean cut, so you should be fine, okay?" Rebecca nodded while Conyeri went to the little tap and took out one of her clean shirts, wetting it, and gently sponged the blood from around the wound, then cleaned around it, ignoring Rebecca's wails. "Talk to me now, Dez."

"I already did. We're spyin' on the Synd'cat. I wantta know whut yeh're doin' up here!"

"Running away."

"That's a long time in a short sentence." He was obviously not sated.

"You want to know?" She asked, and he nodded. "I ran away after the argument with Alt, nearly got eaten by the ghouls of my parents, nearly became a ghoul myself, slept with a pack of worgen, was nursed to health by a woman with a banshee for a daughter then disguised as a boy, got a job as a stablehand in Stormwind, then started working for the Ashcrofts so I could get north."

"That's a lot of information an' no full stops."

"Well done, Mr. Observant." She snapped. Rebecca had stopped whining and was now looking at her with a mixture of disgust and awe.

"You're… a girl?" She asked. "Oh… by the Light… and I…" she covered her mouth with her hand. Conyeri, despite herself, smirked.

"You like girls, Rebecca Ashcroft."

"I thought you were a boy!"

"But you still like me now, even though you know I'm a girl." She grinned and felt the need to shuck off the small charm that Eva had given her, and as soon as it left its place on a chord around her neck, she felt a great relief. Rebecca stared at her, specifically her enlarged chest, and she wiggled her eyebrows. "Eyes are up here."

"As touchin' as this is, Cony, we need ter decide what ter do now." Dez interrupted her, hand on his hips. "Geylan has missed ye. Ye can't'ne stay 'ere."

"I guess," she sighed. "I felt like I had to go north, and now I'm here, I feel incomplete."

"Come back with us. We'll figure stuff out."

"I can't just run from the manor. Lady Tight-Arse would have my head."

"She really likes you, you know," Rebecca said as she sat up, cradling her stomach and wincing. "She told me that if you were high-born, she'd marry me to you."

"That would 'ave been an awkward wedding night," Dez mused before snapping back to seriousness. "We all felt it, Cony. North is the place to be… but now the last piece of the puzzle is missin', an' when we find it, shit is gonna break out."

"Indeed." The barn was silent, save for the whoosh of wind through the cracks in the roof and the quiet creak of the rafters. A weight settled onto the three assembled. "We need to move Nightly's body."

Dez agreed to dispose of it himself as Conyeri helped Rebecca up. "Connor," she started, but them realized something. "Your name isn't Connor, is it?"

"No, it's Conyeri. Conyeri DeHayersae."

"You're wanted!" she said abruptly. "In Southshore, I saw a poster for you. You killed your parents and ran off to join the Defias!"

"Not quite," she sighed. "You can't complain, seeing as I saved your life."

"You're here under false pretences, running from the authorities…" she gasped and would have pushed Cony away, but she was holding her up at the moment.

"I've got the whole 'bad boy' thing going," she smiled slightly, feeling rather tired. "But Rebecca… Nightly was only the, um, third person I've killed… and I _didn't _kill my parents and run off to join the Defias."

Dez chose that second to pull out a small, wrapped parcel. "Conyeri, I'm sorry, but… I've not been total honest with anyone. Miss Du'Paige sent me to give this to ye… an' try an' get you back ter Westfall."

She took the package in her hands. It was strangely heavy. She opened it carefully and found an object wrapped in soft, blood red cloth. She took the cloth off and found it to be a bandana, made from the finest mageweave, embroidered with silver thread. It simply read:

_Property of Marisa Du'Paige_

Inside was a mould, the clay hard, onto which had been pressed the image of an object. It was a brooch, and below it, etched into the clay, was another cryptic message.

_You have absolutely no idea what this does._

She sat back, confused at the mould but angry at the bandana. Trust Marisa. She had given Conyeri something that marked her as 'property of Marisa Du'Paige'. She was nobody's property, least of all the Monster's. She stuffed the two objects into pockets and looked at Dez, who seemed oddly melancholy.

"I didn't want ter do it behind Shaw and Harr's backs, Cony, but Miss Du'Paige… ye can't'ne say no ter her, ye of all people know that."

"It's okay… I'll… I need to think for a bit. Can I be left alone, please?" She looked at Rebecca, who was the epitome of confusion. "You too, Becca."

They left her alone to pick up the pieces of her life.

-

Ugh, that was absolutely horrible to do, but I hope I dropped enough little clues to kep people interested about what's going to happen… soon enough, when the missing piece of Conyeri's moral puzzle slots in.

I hope that you see some character development, especially in Conyeri. She's changed and she hardly knows it- though whether for better or for worse, I'm not entirely sure myself. (Well, I am, but that sounded cooler.) Just in case anyone was wondering:

Conyeri- Con-**yeh**-ree

DeHayersae- Duh **Hay**-err-say

Geylan- **Gay**-lan

Harrman- **Har-**man

Cefflan, Dez, Rebecca, VanCleef, Marisa, Nightly, all how they look.

Rosea- Row-**see-**ah

Stay tuned for next week's chapter of _The Brotherhood,_ in which we encounter something entirely otherworldly…


	8. Chapter 8

The Brotherhood

Chapter Eight

"The scythe," he mumbled, rocking backwards and forwards wildly. "The scythe, the scythe, the scythe, the scy-"

"Shut the hell up!" P-P backhanded the man who sat, shaking and blinking rapidly, in the dingy inn. "Come on, Paul, I'm not prepared to hear you raving madly. Just tell me where you put the piece of the scythe and I'll leave, nice an peaceful."

"I t-t-told y-you!" he howled. "St-st-stormwind! You went to f-f-find it!"

"And I couldn't find it in Stormwind and the side-mission was a failure now that Baros sent me back to the Defias! So you must have put it somewhere else!"

"I d-didn't…" he yelped as P-P kicked his shin. "O-o-oh-kkayy! It whu-whu… whu…"

"I don't have all day."

"I d-didn't know what it did! If I h-hh-had, I'd never have sold that fragment!"

Silence. Deadly silence.

"You _sold_ a piece of the Scythe of Elune?" P-P asked incredulously, his eyes wide. "You _sold _a piece of the _fucking Sycthe of Elune_?" Jitters just nodded. P-P sucked in a big breath and ground his teeth together. "To whom, Paul?"

"A trader… it whu-whu-was years and years ago, Pa-pp-pa…"

"You should have told us you had it! You've been hiding here for nearly twenty years and it never crossed your mind?"

"It did! I sw-sw-swear it did… but, Pa-pp…"

"Sir."

"S-sir, I… I was hungry and dying… I n-needed to b-buy food…"

P-P banged his head against the wall of the derelict inn and growled, closing his eyes. He had taken anger management classes with Marzy when he was a boy, but he did tend to lose his cool in the face of idiots. "Whom did you sell it to?"

"I don't remember his n-name… a traveling salesman."

"You've got to remember his name, you… you…!"

"Maybe… t-t-tony, or something… he was foreign sounding." Jitters- Paul- looked at P-P, who was looking at him with death in his eyes. "P-p-please… Pa… Sir… don't-"

"Oh, I won't." he glowered. "I'm leaving you to rot here in this hole of a region that _you _destroyed with your bloody scythe!" And with that he stormed out of Raven Hill and jumped onto his horse, galloping along the road that led back into Westfall. He got to Sentinel Hill, where the Defias were basing their important overground operations now. In the shade of the lumber mill, the metal-men were being drilled and hammered, prepped for takeovers of smaller villages on the outskirts of Elwyn. There was one in particular that P-P wanted to talk with, the only one not being serviced at present, who was coolly sitting on a step perusing a copy of D.J. Silanger's newest novel, Pitcher in the Wheat, a heartfelt romance. He looked rather bored with it.

"Sir." P-P interrupted him, saluting as he approached. The metal-man turned lazily and regarded him.

"Paul tell you where he put the shard?"

"He sold it to a traveling salesman," P-P spat, brow wrinkling. "There aren't that many around, but this sale was perhaps even twenty odd years ago… they could be anywhere."

"Salesmen are like barnacles, boy," the metal-man drawled, flipping the page over. "Heldon, silly boy… don't refuse her…"

"Barnacles, sir?" he tried to stop the metal-man getting too absorbed. Sir looked up at him as though he hadn't been there to start with.

"Oh, once they find a place, they stick to it and extend their appendages," he finished his metaphor. "The salesman will still be around, I assure you. Find him."

"Yes, sir." He sighed as he went back to his novel, and then left, thinking to stop by the inn newly dubbed as Cookie's giant kitchen and grab a bite to eat. He picked up a steaming leg of chicken and a small loaf of bread and ate it on the way back to his horse, which had been brushed down by the surly groom in his absence.

The trip to Elwyn was nice, seeing as Westfall was now Defias operated, and as such they were making an effort to revamp the land. Giant sprinklers and harvest golems chugging out fertilizer covered the fields, preparing for the spring, when Westfall would be green again. He took off his bandana once he reached the river and crossed it in the shallowest part, where he was waist-deep. Being wet did not bother him; he was used to the cold. Quickly jumping back on the animal, he took to the road, where he encountered only a traveling baker with an unseasonably sunny disposition for someone walking around Elwyn in winter pulling a small cart behind her.

He skirted around Goldshire; one of the guards there knew his face, normal and forgettable as it was. It started raining as night fell, making his horse snort and shiver as the breath from its nostrils became visible. As the entrance to Duskwood from the north came up after he had passed through a small bit of Redridge, he spied a silhouette on the road. Thinking it was someone from the Night Watch, he tipped the hood of his cloak down and walked past him or her.

Something stopping him, he got off his horse and ran back to the man, who carried a heavy pack and a lantern. "Sir!" he said in his best innocent voice. "Sir, would you happen to be a trader?"

The man turned around, his soaking wet black hair sticking to his face. "That-a I would, young-a sir."

"Thank the Light! I've been looking along this road for one such as you. My bracers are terribly frayed and won't stand much longer, especially now I'm fighting on the Westfall Front…"

"Then you are-a in-a luck, my friend, for Antonio Perelli is-a vendor of-a the finest bracers this-a side of-a Stranglethorn!" He grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "A fine man like yourself… a rogue, per-a-haps?"

"Aye, sir, though even in the shadows I keep the Light close." He tipped his metaphorical hat and grinned at Antonio… who fit the description quite nicely. Tony, certainly a shortening of his name, and a traveling salesman who would go into Duskwood, perhaps as far as Raven Hill. "I'd like to see your stock, though perhaps in more shelter than here?"

"Yes, yes-a… a shelter back a-down the road, young rogue." He gestured and P-P followed him, horse in tow, down the road and further into the perpetual gloom that was Duskwood. The found a small shack, inside which Perelli set his goods up, his bag completely empty and the table completely full. P-P examined some sturdy-looking leather bracers, wondering if he could claim them on expenses, while his eyes flitted across the wares. Bits and bobs, some useful and most a little damp, but no scythe fragment.

"These, if you'd please- they're very well made," he gestured to the bracers. "Though not particularly pretty. So you sell any jewelry? I have a sweetheart…"

Perelli's eyes twinkled. "Not any more… there is-a not much call for pretty things in Duskwood no more, mister rogue. Once, a long time ago, I crafted the most beautiful amulet…" he said wistfully, his eyes faraway. "But I sold it."

"What kind of people would have to money to pay for something like that, in these times?" P-P wondered aloud, trying to keep the hidden question inferred. Perelli scratched his chin, dark with a couple of days' stubble.

"The father of a beautiful girl. They were-a on their way to-a settle in Stormwind… she saw it and he knew her heart would take nothing else." He frowned. "She is dead now, though."

"Oh…" he darkened his face. "Was it… natural?"

"She was a-murdered by her son, I think. Or daughter- I hear little news from Westfall now."

P-P furrowed his brows as a plethora of names sprung to mind- Defias who had murdered their parents, narrowed to Defias who had murdered their parents who had lived in Westfall… and a beautiful mother usually meant a beautiful daughter/ handsome son…

He was cut off from his chain of thought as lightning flashed from outside.

"The storms are-a getting-a worse, these days," Perelli mourned. "This-a winter is worse than all the winters I have-a had before."

"Bad things are coming, I guess." P-P shrugged, though a grin rose behind his eyes as he thought of the Defias Zeppelin. "Very bad things."

He handed over some silver for the bracers and wished the traveling trader farewell, his mind refusing to narrow the list down. He tried to concentrate, but only the rumbling storm and the harsh sheets of rain that drummed upon his shoulders filled his mind. Darkshire was closest, from here, but Lakeshire was safer. Anonymity was easier maintained there. He spurred his horse into a punishing canter and barely registered the change in scenery, on pausing once to consult a signpost. The guards by the Everstill Bridge were there, stalwart as always, but they saw he was human and let him by without questions, glum and soaking wet. The Inn in Lakeshire was warm and dry, and P-P paid his night's board quickly, not daring to shuck his heavy, water-saturated clothes for fear of being recognized. He had originally lived in Lakeshire until he was about thirteen, when raiding orcs had killed his parents. Destitute, he had fled to the Defias and become one of their youngest and most useful agents, due to his perpetually gangly, innocent and youthful demeanor that made most dismiss him as a threat.

As soon as he had reached the top of the stairs, he was alerted to a powerful presence. Darkness and guile, coming from a smallish room. He stealthed and snuck around the partially open door, trusting in his skills. Inside, a man merely stared straight through his invisibility and cocked an eyebrow. "Young rogue?"

"Sir," he left stealth, confused. "Who would you be?"

"That depends on who sent you here," he growled, but returned idly from where he was penning a letter on a small writing desk, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. "You stink of Westfall."

"I am sent merely by curiosity…" he tried to convey his feelings. "You… exude an aura…"

"Perceptive boy," he dipped his quill into the inkpot and signed the letter with a flourish. "I am Wiley."

"Wiley… the Black?" P-P's jaw dropped.

"The same, though now retired… all it appears I am useful for now is making sure that idiot Stoutmantle concentrates on the Deadmines as opposed to Camp RUTN or The Gulley."

P-P almost laughed. Poor, poor man, trapped in the Inn of Lakeshire. "Sir… Stoutmantle is dead, along with all others opposed to the Defias in Westfall. We own the state." Wiley dropped his quill and finally turned to face P-P, his one good eye wide.

"What?"

"We took Sentinel Hill and all the farmsteads. Westfall is ruled by the Defias."

"Pull the other one, it has bells on," Wiley snorted.

"No jokes, Sir." He affirmed, still quite dazed that he'd found Wiley the Black, Defias legend, at an Inn in Lakeshire purely out of co-incidence. "You can stop your undercover operation now."

"But…" he looked back at his desk, whereupon were stacked identical letters. "I've been doing it for five years, giving this false info to the peons Stoutmantle sends for my help…"

"There's a great deal more to be doing back in Westfall," P-P's eyes glinted. "So many projects you've missed… the Defias are no longer a small force, Sir."

Wiley nodded and sighed, again looking wistfully at his stack of envelopes. "I would quite like to see my son again… how is he?"

"Your son?" P-P asked. Wiley was by no means young, but he didn't seem like a family man. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with many people of the Defias, since I've been in Stormwind for a while."

"His name is Enides. Enides Farlcairn III." Wiley looked slightly embarrassed.

"Ah." P-P scratched the back of his neck. "Which would make you…"

"Yes. Don't say it. I'm just Wiley." He scowled. "Not like my father, the prick he was. He named my son, not I."

"Okay," P-P stopped snickering. "Tomorrow, then, will you be leaving back for Westfall?"

"I guess so," he thought deeply. "You're sure you don't know my son?"

"Positive…"

"Then he might be dead."

"Possibly."

Wiley chuckled slightly. "You're too honest."

"I've been serving Baros Alexton for the past couple of years, I'm allowed a little honesty."

"I suppose we should get some sleep, then, if you are to show me how great the Defias have become in my absence." Wiley smiled, and P-P immediately knew that he was not as nice as he appeared to be. Perhaps a triple agent, or something, but this man was not going to actively help the Defias. P-P considered it both his duty and hobby to act as the angel of death, and he had not had a great deal of killing to do in the last few years. Killing Wiley the Black, the traitor, was perhaps the most entertaining thing he'd get to do for a while. Until the zeppelin was completed, at least.

-

"Miss Ashcroft is looking awfy stiff ta'day." One of the maids said to Conyeri off-handedly while they were sweeping the courtyard at around sunset, after seeing Rebecca gingerly hobbling around. She had told the silly girl to rest, but she insisted on walking around the day after being stabbed. "Connor?"

"Hmm?"

"You ain't looking at Miss Ashcroft that-a-ways, are you?" the maid gave her sad eyes. Conyeri knew she was popular amongst the maidstaff, and that certainly irked her, especially since she was leaving Manor Ashcroft as soon as word came back from Dez that they had a safe place to stay. They had a plan all figured out.

"Of course not, she's way above my status." Conyeri told the maid, who brightened up and spent the rest of the morning eyeing her ass, which she found incredibly amusing. She didn't particularly enjoy being a boy, but it did have its moments.

She and Dez had concocted a plan. She was going to leave Manor Ashcroft on her food run, which was every two days, and never come back. They would arrange for a body suitably fitting her description to be found.

The body, of course, would have to be dead, the part that Conyeri didn't quite like. Yes, she wanted out. But she didn't think killing some poor unsuspecting boy to do it was particularly noble. Rebecca would be the only one who knew she actually survived.

Speaking of Rebecca…

"Connor," she managed, dumping herself on the nearest strategically placed bench. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Miss Ashcroft," he tipped her hat, going back to her sweeping. Rebecca was offended.

"Connor."

"Yes, Miss Ashcroft?" she asked, trying to convey a sense of 'we'll talk later' in the three words, but failing.

"Sit with me."

The maid, who was only a metre away, gasped softly and gave Rebecca a famous maidstaff glare, guaranteed to melt iron in any was present. Since being stabbed, however, Rebecca had begun thinking herself a bit tougher, and shrugged it off. Conyeri obliged, setting her broom against the wall. "Becca, not now, not in public."

She pouted. "But I'll probably see nothing of you ever again after you leave tomorrow."

"Wait, you know I'm leaving tomorrow?"

"You just told me." She smirked. "I guessed, Connor… sorry, Conyeri."

"Please, I really don't want to draw attention to myself," she pleaded, looking around the courtyard.

"Then tell me what you're doing. I want to know that you'll be safe."

"I'm a wanted criminal of Stormwind, a member of the Defias Brotherhood and a girl- and worgen- magnet. I'll never be safe." She said somewhat sarcastically.

"Girl I can understand, but worgen?"

"Long story."

"…Worgen are evil, Connor."

Conyeri cocked an eyebrow. "Not to me, they aren't. They like me. They snuggle with me."

"You're sure it wasn't just a dwarf woman?"

"Yes," she laughed a bit, trying to imagine that. "Though it might have been two standing one each other's shoulders."

"Alterac is very wary of worgen." She explained. "Silverpine is closer than we like, and worgen sometimes even hop the border and prey on our livestock."

She flexed comically. "Not after I've had a word with them."

"Why do you think that is, though? That worgen like you?"

She shrugged. "Animals like me. Worgen like me. Girls like me. I'm attractive like that."

"Seriously."

"I have no idea, honestly."

"You should look into it. It could be useful or dangerous, you never know." Rebecca's hand inched dangerously near hers and she shifted position.

"I don't really care, Becca. My head is filled with a sense of… _waiting_. For something, I don't know…" she struggled to explain it. "It's maddening, but things are slotting into place and I'm the middle piece, and I don't like it, but I don't want you of all people to end up as a corner piece of the puzzle. You or Cefflan or anyone here."

Rebecca smiled sadly. "You're taking genuine interest in my wellbeing?"

"No, I just-"

"Save it, Connor- and I'll probably keep calling you Connor- for somebody who doesn't know any-" She stopped suddenly and her face became a mess of confusion. "The wind changed."

"And?"

"It stinks of black magic." Rebecca turned around wildly as if expecting to see someone standing next to the bench. Conyeri sent feelers out with her senses, finding nothing that shouldn't be there. "Someone is here, someone who abuses magic… ugh, they smell horrible… like they've become a mixing bowl for all kinds of power…" She flopped back against the bench, looking whiter than usual.

"Is it… nor very nice, for a mage to smell that?"

"It's like… throwing every herb on Azeroth together into a pool of tar and stirring rotten eggs in. Overpoweringly nasty."

Conyeri's stomach settled somewhere near her ankles. "Marisa is paying me a visit."

"Mar- oh, your 'mage-friend'." Rebecca's face went from disgusted to angry to pitiful and back to jealous mixed with indignation, all in a split second. "If I were stupid, I'd say that I'd fight her… but she's so strong. And practices black magic."

"I wouldn't let you, even if you wanted to."

"Ever the knight in shining armour, Connor." Rebecca smiled a bit, but her face quickly became sullen. "My mother and brother will notice this as soon as they step outside."

Conyeri's heart began to race and her mind started working on overdrive, metaphorical cogs spinning around wildly. She had very little chance of besting Marisa in battle, considering she could do practically no magic and her fighting skills were nowhere near as good as hers… but against four people, Marisa would have a harder time. But they would not fight her, she remembered- she was their senior officer within the Defias. She looked at Rebecca and remembered her getting tired from doing tricks for an hour, and how weak her frostbolts had been. She stood even less chance.

Making a split second decision, she grabbed Rebecca's wrist and started sprinting off the estate, stopping at the stables to grab the Thane. She rode him without a saddle, Rebecca clinging onto her waist in bewilderment. They rode north until they passed the Alterac boundary into Silverpine.

"Connor!" Rebecca cried from behind her. "Why are we going here?"

"Worgen like me. They'll fight for me." By the gods, she hoped she was right. They rode along the path until a howling from the thick wall of trees by the road broke the eerie silence. Conyeri dismounted and said a little to prayer to a nondescript deity that she could really do this. Through the tall trees she jogged, turning back occasionally to make sure that Rebecca was still puffing behind her. She had felt that Rebecca would be in danger from Marisa if she had left her, but she was unfit and more of a liability than an advantage right now.

They broke into a clearing and Conyeri was greeted by a pack, perhaps fifteen, of worgen, their white coats gleaming in the moonlight. They looked quite startled to see her, and turned from vicious hunters to children, wondering at a new toy. The Alpha, who had a black streak down his chest, bounded up to her. She stroked his coat affectionately and he smiled (as much a worgen could smile) and howled softly.

Confident and mystified at the same time, Conyeri turned to the treeline and collected a panting Rebecca, claiming her as not for lacerating. The terrified girl gripped Conyeri's sleeve until she had to let go and allow the blood to return to her white knuckles. They were now waiting for Marisa, who would no doubt be traveling twice as fast as they had with magic of some sort. This was why she had brought Rebecca, to tell her about mages so she could properly plan a counter-attack.

Conyeri felt _old_, not in body, but she wasn't herself four months or so ago- perhaps it was five, she had no idea- she was different. Harder, more world-weary, more powerful. She wouldn't be the abused and innocent little girl that Marisa had taken advantage of all those times- she would survive, she would escape, she would throw everything she had at that demon of a woman and she'd be damned if she didn't.

Conyeri DeHayersae was no longer a child.

The worgen came up behind her, ears pinned to their heads as the scent of black magic became stronger, according to Rebecca, who had spurted everything she knew about magic in less that two minutes, an impressive feat. Conyeri was now comfortable with the worgen around her, and had conveyed to them a sense of what the plan was (or so she hoped).

The trees seemed to sag and the air darkened with Marisa's approach. Conyeri upped her sight and nearly tripped over the grass. The woman she remembered as looking in perfect control of herself to the public eyes had not had an easy time. Her disguise magic had failed, somehow, and her clothes were blackened. She strode with a slight limp, so she must have had some kind of mount. Conyeri gulped as she approached, thinking this was not just a woman with a petty control complex.

Eyes bloodshot from days without sleep stared listlessly at her, and a mouth with chapped lips smiled cruelly. There was a deep gouge on her exposed stomach, and her irises coruscated different characters, manic. Marisa Du'Paige had most likely succumbed to her insanity

"Hello, Cony." She greeted her with a jaunty wave. "You've caused me no end of trouble."

"That was partly the intention." She said hesitantly, giving Rebecca time to accurately profile her aura. A whisper in her ear confirmed her fears.

"She'd maxed out."

"Who's the new girl, Cony?" Marisa pouted. "You're going at it behind my back."

"She's a friend, Marisa. Of course, you have none, so it's beyond your understanding."

"You're mocking me because you're confident." She smiled and regarded Rebecca. "I'm prettier and more powerful. Oh, of course… the worgen fight for you."

"They do."

"Do you know why?" Marisa's eyes lit up a radiant yellow with glee. "You don't. I know you don't, and I do. How smart I am." She put her hand down her shirt and produced a small amulet, which Cony remembered as being pressed into the mold of clay that Marisa had sent her via Dez. It shone a disturbing silver in the moonlight, and the worgen behind Cony wailed, their eyes wild. "This is a pendant made from the last fragment of the Scythe of Elune, which brought the worgen into Azeroth. You've been sleeping next to it for seventeen years. I hold it in my hands. They listen to me."

The realization hit Conyeri like a two-handed mace in the stomach, which she had once experienced, making her jaw drop slightly. The Scythe of Elune?

"You don't like me." She said to the pendant, sighing. "You like Cony, because she's descended from night elves, and Elune is the night elf goddess, and you come from Elune." Conyeri felt the insanity on her, palpable. The thing had addled her mind, wanting to be free of a human. "You will. You'll do what I tell you because I can get you what you want."

She cradled the amulet, whispering to it quietly. Abruptly, the worgen behind Conyeri stopped being passive and sprang into action. She barreled out of the way of the leader and onto Rebecca, stopped her from being taken down. Marisa shouted at them angrily, telling them not to attack Cony. They could have Rebecca, but not Cony, so she lay on top of the girl, preventing them from getting to her.

"Come back with me, Cony. We'll have such fun in Stormwind. And you…" she lost her balance suddenly and plummeted to the ground, grunting softly. "You could do it. You could summon them through the scythe fragment. We could destroy Stormwind. The whole Alliance, make our oppressors taste their own medicine."

"Why would I?" she spat, conscious of Rebecca trembling beneath her, tighter than one of Marzy's smiles. "I have few bones to pick with them."

"That is not the question." Marisa grinned, getting shakily back to her feet. "You _will_ do it, whether or not you want to. This is too good to miss. I've been waiting for this ever since I killed the fat noble at the gates, ten years ago." She threw her arms out wide, eyes fervent and mad. The worgen howled with her. "We're going to raze Stormwind to the ground, Cony! You and me, we will. We'll sit back and watch as our enemies are devoured, piece by piece, until there's nothing of import left!" she turned to purr to the scythe fragment. "Isn't that right?"

"Connor," Rebecca breathed from underneath her, her voice strained. "Do something…"

"I can't, she has the amulet thing. The worgen obey her."

"Then pull your dagger out and do what you did to that man last night!" Rebecca implored her; eyes fixed on the drooling worgen not a metre away.

"She's a lot better at swordcraft than him, as well as a mage- I'd not stand a chance." Conyeri racked her brains for something to do. "I can't think of anything."

"You're giving in?"

"Perhaps I could kill myself, or you could kill me. Here, now, so she can't summon the worgen using me. That would only prevent it for a while, until she finds another night elf who can wield the scythe thing."

"No!" Rebecca said immediately. "No suicide."

"Then what would you suggest?" she asked irritably as Marisa was absorbed in stroking the amulet, eyelids heavy. "We can't outrun the worgen, and whatever she came on. The horses are on the road, and the road is through Marisa. We can't kill Marisa, thus we cannot reach the horses."

"There has to be something…" Rebecca thought desperately. "I could… I could make a portal…"

"One that works?"

"It might take us anywhere in the world…"

"Even the middle of the ocean would be better than here," Conyeri kept glancing around, making sure nobody was about to attack them. "How quickly can you make it?"

"Maybe… two minutes?"

"Start now."

Rebecca obliged and started muttering, her brow beaded with sweat. Her hands shook as she drew little runes in the air, absorbed in spellcasting. Marisa's head snapped around to look at her, eyes narrowed. Gods, Conyeri thought, they were dead or worse.

"A portal?" she asked incredulously. "Cony, do you give me that little credit?"

"Desperate times." She returned. Inexplicably, she felt a physical tug on her from Marisa, or perhaps the amulet. She dug her fingers into the earth to prevent her rolling off Rebecca and leaving her for worgen-fodder. "Marisa, please. Think for yourself, not for that _thing_."

"My wish is to destroy Stormwind. The scythe's wish is to bring the worgen into Azeroth. We're doing a deal."

"One it will break, you know better than that! You'll be their first meal."

"No. I have it carefully planned out." Conyeri was tugged again. "And all I need," tug, "is a little help," harder tug, "from you!"

At last her meager anchorage came free and Conyeri could only just cling to Rebecca's dress before she magically leapt the eight or so metres to Marisa's feat. The worgen lunged but stopped at the last minute as Conyeri recovered.

_This is not how it will end!_ Conyeri thought, gripping at Rebecca's sleeve as Marisa crouched down to look at her, so close they were almost nose-to-nose. She wished Geylan was here, and Dez and Harrman. Or and Jack, or Alt, or just anyone who cared about her, not a pack of worgen and a girl who she'd practically used and was about to get killed. Marisa's eyes, now their normal green, were uncharacteristically worried. "Cony…"

Conyeri spat in her face and scowled at her, wanting to show defiance before she lost her battle. Rebecca, under her, was still chanting, and around her, on the floor, a faint rim of purple was beginning to show. She felt better, thinking that actually, the portal was working.

With a last, gasped word, they fell through the portal, leaving Silverpine behind, landing hard on something wooden. Marisa looked down through the portal at them and grinned one last time before the window in space and time closed.

"Rebecca," Conyeri said finally, after what seemed like several years of silence. "There are not words to describe how awesome you are."

"Thanks," she said softly. "But I'd like to know where we are before you say that." Conyeri hopped off her and offered her a hand, which she took and stood, a little shaky. The floorboards were wooden, and the walls of the room were an odd metallic material, and rounded, which worried Cony. There was a single door, which they took with trepidation, peeking around. Conyeri saw goblins, lots of them, and felt relieved. She could handle goblins. They walked out into open air and found that they really were in open air- in the air, with no ground. They were above the ground. They were flying.

Conyeri seemed nothing notable to the goblins that pushed her out of the way as they carried bags of spare parts or complicated blueprints around, conversing in whatever language goblins spoke.

"We're in the air, Connor," Rebecca said, clutching her hand out of nothing but fright. "I've never been above the ground before."

"Me neither." She admitted, thinking to look over the edge and find out where they were. She was shocked to see Westfall below, reddish and yellowy, the fields filled with black specs. From a door further along the side of the ship walked two men, wearing red bandanas. Conyeri immediately lost all of the relief she had. They were on some sort of Defias zeppelin.

"Take this," she dug around in her pockets, taking out her original Defias bandana, which she had kept for purely practical reasons, say if she needed to pass through a group of them or something. From her back pocket, she pulled, with dismay, the one that Marisa had sent her, along with the mold. She turned it inside out and tied it deftly, helping Rebecca with hers. Though, in her dress, she didn't look the part, so she ducked into a room marked storage and rummaged around in some crates until she found some trousers. No shirts, so she lent her waistcoat to Rebecca. She looked quite like a pirate, Conyeri thought, in trousers far too large and nothing but a vest and a waistcoat, but it was better than fine lace and frills.

They walked outside and Conyeri was very conscious of the constant danger she faced just being here. This was a Defias boat. They needed to find a way off, and then… then, she could go to her house. Her old house, where nobody would think of bothering to look, and she would think of what to do next. How she wished she had Harrman's skill at planning and Geylan's foresight, or Dez's kind comments. From around the corner came a man, or a boy, looking troubled. He regarded the two of them and seemed to recognize Conyeri, but didn't cry out.

"Conyeri DeHayersae," he greeted her. "Baros would be livid."

"Uh," she wasn't sure what to do. "Good… evening?"

He regarded her with some interest. "I was present when he signed your death warrant, you know. He really hates your guts- though I haven't had the honour of meeting you in person." He held out a hand. "Patrick Darkleigh, affectionately referred to as P-P for most of my life, because Baros Alexton is an ass."

"Nice to meet you." She shook his hand. He'd been in Stormwind, then, which was why he didn't know she'd run away. She looked at him, and then something seemed to click in his head.

"You! It's you… the scythe fragment!"

Behind her, Rebecca hiccupped at the very mention of the artifact. "How do you…?"

"Have you got it? Gods, please say you have, or I'll go insane!"

"No, I don't. I did sleep with it for seventeen years, though." She felt nothing wrong with telling this boy about it. She didn't care, she just needed to hurry up the conversation and get off the zeppelin. "Marisa has it."

"Marisa Du'Paige?" his jaw dropped. "And where is she?"

"Stark raving mad and somewhere in Silverpine, where we left her." She replied dryly. "The amulet- scythe thing- drove her insane. She wants to summon a giant army of worgen and set them on Stormwind."

"That was kind of what we wanted to her to do," he said. "We're going to invade Stormwind. Well, we're going to try, anyway, now that the zeppelin is complete. These goblins, I tell you… it's only been a month and the thing is sky-worthy. Amazing."

"Ah." Conyeri said blankly "Stormwind takeover."

"Why don't you sound so happy?"

"I haven't been back here recently," she lied. "Didn't think things would… progress so fast."

"I honestly don't know how they did it… I'm guessing you only just got the message that all hearthstones had been reset to return to the zeppelin?"

Cony's mouth went dry. Hearthstones? She didn't own one, as she never trained in a class, and had no need to go anywhere but around Westfall.

"Shit."

"What is it?" Rebecca spoke for the first time, a mere whisper in here ear.

"Marisa will have a hearthstone, and it'll be set here." She panicked. "We have to get off the boat- zeppelin- thing."

P-P, or Patrick, smiled in a knowing way. "Miss Du'Paige was always… tenacious. I grew up with her, though there is a three-year age gap. Never one to let correctness stop her, eh?"

P-P was thinking that Marisa was still after her like she had been when Cony had first joined the Defias. She still was, of course, but now… now she had an ancient night elf artifact, limited sanity and Cony was the only person she knew who could properly use it. She would be here at any moment. "Uh, Patrick, we have to get going."

"Right you are, Miss." He saluted her. Why? She was still a trainee. Then, she realized it was her bandana, visibly shining slightly with the magical properties of mageweave. Bandana material was used as the first indicator for rank in the Defias, and wearing this, she was pretty much the top dog. He walked past her and fleetingly glanced at Rebecca, who had the uncanny ability to cease existing when Conyeri was in front of her. The night was cold and she was wearing very little, and Conyeri could see her shivering slightly, and decided that they needed to get off the ship and somewhere warm, fast. A smile formed on her lips and she started walking, her new plan amusing her.

That was, of course, until she found a small transporter of goblin engineering. The goblin told her it was currently out of use and that there were more than enough supplies on board for her to stay until it was fixed. Jumping off was not an option, and Marisa would be on board soon. Frantic, she descended into the bowels of the ship, looking for somewhere to hide out. She found, instead, Isobella, reading a dog-eared book and drinking a cup of tea.

"Conyeri?" she asked incredulously, standing up. "What the hell-" A hand over her mouth stopped her loud questions.

"Shut up." Conyeri warned. "Nobody can know I'm here, understood?" with one hand over the girl's mouth, she pulled her dagger out and held it to her throat. "Talk, and I cut." She released the girl's mouth but kept her hold, the dagger glinting mercilessly in the lantern-light. "Tell me where the hearthstones return people to."

Isobella remained silent. "You can talk, duh, but quietly."

"They go to about… three metres left of where we're standing now." She said. "Why-"

Conyeri swore and turned to the left, where, on time, Marisa was returning to the zeppelin. "Rebecca, behind me again, please."

She obliged, and still holding Isobella at dagger-point, Conyeri faced Marisa as she returned, her face a vision of smugness. "I see you again, so soon? What a coincidence that your portal happened to bring you here!"

Rebecca groaned behind her and cursed her inadequacy. Conyeri had bigger problems. "Marisa, I don't want to destroy Stormwind."

"Want is such a… useless word. You either get or you don't, and you'll never get if you just _want _things." She sighed and Isobella vanished and re-appeared out of Cony's grip, crashing into a hammock. "Since we have no worgen here, the girl behind you can live."

"Damn straight."

"Not quite so." Marisa smiled and Conyeri felt as though her body was being turned inside out. The world faded and within a second reappeared, but different. They were on an upper deck of the zeppelin, devoid of goblins. Around the edges, purple magic sprang up, a barrier, stopping Conyeri from escaping. "Now, we'll have fun."

Conyeri ducked a frostbolt designed to keep her in place and gripped her dagger, springing onto Marisa, who let her push her down easily. Why wasn;t she fighting back?

The answer soon hit Conyeri hard- the scythe fragment wanted its new, more able owner. It had come free of Marisa's shirt and lay there, on her rising and falling chest, glowing in the natural light. Conyeri dragged her eyes from it, but they were pulled there again. She wanted to touch it, to let it do what it wanted… what did she really care for Stormwind, anyway? Let it be destroyed. The worgen wouldn't kill her- she would be their queen, their ruler.

Marisa smirked. "Touch it. You want to, so you can. Get, don't want." Conyeri growled and tried to move, but the sheer power in that thing was forcing her down, further and further. "Our positions are reversed."

"I'm not going to." She said, to convince herself. It didn't work. "I'm not going to. I don't want, and I won't get. I'm not…"

"Not what?" Marisa asked slyly. "You're a murderer, you're a cheat, and you're a liar. Your good and evil are all mixed up, but you don't get, like I do. You want, and you torment yourself with it."

"Untrue."

"See? You lie, even to yourself. You like the Defias, you like power. You liked it when you could use your power to save that girl from the worgen, and you liked it when you took Isobella hostage. You liked flirting with the gossiping girls in Stormwind- they spoke very fondly to me of you." Her voice was reasonable. "Face yourself, Conyeri DeHayersae, you're as bad as me."

"Fuck you!" she screamed, the swearword now not so foreign on her tongue. "I didn't get to choose!"

"You chose to kill Sarah Saldean, you chose to kill Nightly. You chose to flirt and now, you're choosing to try and kill me. There is no such thing as not being able to choose."

Cony looked at her, suddenly fearful. Marisa would lie, Marisa would cheat- and Marisa would certainly murder innocents. Marisa would flirt. Marisa could choose. A pain, something otherworldly, rippled around her as the scythe fragment began to get annoyed at her resolve.

"I had hoped it would not come to this," Marisa sighed, and the world sighed with her. Disappointment filled the air, and Conyeri felt embarrassed, even though she knew it was merely a play of her emotions, black magery. "I invoke the right of magical possession."

"The what?"

"You're property of Marisa Du'Paige, remember?" she said, smug, he hand stroking the mageweave bandana gently. "You chose to put that on. If you're wearing something that clearly states possession… I can invoke the right."

Conyeri's eyes widened as she fumbled for the knot at the back of the bandana. She cursed Marzy's lessons as she tried to remember how to quickly undo the secure knot. Marisa laughed as her freezing fingers failed, time and time again, to pull the thing free.

"Cony, would you stand up for me?" she asked. Conyeri stood up. It wasn't like being possessed or compelled to do something, like the scythe fragment had… it was like she wanted to do it. She had given away her own wishes and now wanted only to fulfill Marisa's. There was no despair in her, no anger at her foolishness, because Marisa did not feel these things. "Take the fragment."

The metal was hot in her cold hands, and as soon as she grasped it, power thundered through her, her weak night elf blood rejoicing as it sung for Elune, fulfilling what it thought was her wish, but was really the twisted worgen's. The object itself disappeared from her hand, relinquishing its fragile physical form and taking Conyeri as its host. She, however, felt no different, because Marisa felt no different.

"I revoke the right of magical possession."

Then she felt violently sick. Throwing up repeatedly, Conyeri fell to the deck and groaned. She felt… odd. Not quite… real.

"Good morning, sunshine." Marisa crouched down and patted her patronizingly on the shoulder. "I wished you'd taken it yourself. I'd have felt a great deal more satisfied… but now that I'm not holding that thing, I feel a great deal clearer. Though I probably don't look it… my, it's been a wild ride."

Conyeri just looked at her. Here she was, making banter, after what had just happened. Perhaps she _had_ finally lost all her sanity.

"I can invoke that right of possession whenever you're wearing that, you know. And you can't take it off because it's enchanted. You thought you'd win; you thought you were your own person, that you had the resolve to be 'good'. Why make yourself? You're rotten at the core, Cony, but you torture yourself to fit the stereotype you grew up in. Your father was bad, and as are you. Insanity may run in my family, but evil runs in yours. How does it feel?"

Conyeri slapped her. Marisa touched her cheek and laughed gleefully, standing up and letting the magical shield fall. Wind buffeted them, freezing cold and damp, in the barrier's absence, but neither was particularly bothered. Conyeri stood up, finding something slightly off about everything she did. It was disconcerting, like she had been seeing everything in one shade and it had been tweaked a bit. The feeling conspired to make her throw up again, but she swallowed the bile, looking at Marisa. "You own me."

"Yes." She blinked a couple of times as her hair flew into her eyes. Marisa quickly charmed the sick off the bandana, cleaning it in a mere instant. "And I'd much prefer if, when the time comes, you'd call the worgen down yourself."

"I don't have a choice."

"You do! I just said all this! Dear gods, are you deaf? There is always a choice. You always make the selfish one. You could kill yourself and stop everything, but you constantly let yourself be used. It's just how you're made."

Conyeri glared at her and looked at the sky. The zeppelin was over Westfall now, but she knew soon it would cast a giant shadow over Stormwind. And then, everyone would die. What most upset her was that she'd be the one to make it happen. It was something she supposed, glumly, that she'd have to accept. After all, running never works. She'd built up a glut of shit that was supposed to be happening to her, and now it was falling down on her, crashing like spring tides on the rocks. A part of her, the part that was Connor the groom, the handsome, flirty boy, the charismatic girl that had first made friends with Geylan, then with Dez and Harrman and Jack and Rebecca and Cefflan… that part wanted to rebel against the fragment, her fate, the inescapable cycle of degeneration and evil that she had apparently been born into.

Perhaps that was why her father had moved to Westfall. There, she could have lived out her life never knowing any of this, never having to confront herself or the part that was not charismatic or generous, that Marisa had said came from Harrigan. The little things that added up. She accepted it, then and there, hundreds of metres above Westfall, where she had once lived in peace. Somehow, somewhere along the line, she had gone wrong. She had made the wrong choices and was paying for it. She was not Conyeri, a smiling child, innocent and naturally good. She had been born to do despicable things, and now she was, as was pre-ordained, doing them. She was killing, hurting people, about to try and wipe out the capital city.

She began to cry.

-

"Well, I'm going. I don't care what you say."

"Shaw, please-"

Geylan took his hearthstone out and glanced at Dez threateningly. "It's all gone wrong now, Dez. I felt it. Something's changed, and I have to go back. She's back there and she's in trouble."

"Shaw…"

Geylan activated his hearthstone and felt himself be pulled through the air, in split seconds, giddily returning to the zeppelin. If Harrman and Dez wanted, they could follow him. They had hearthstones, and, he presumed, consciences. When Dez had told him about Cony… how angry he'd been. He'd slashed his bed and the walls and shouted and screamed at him, and now he was doing something more productive. They had known Marisa was here, and they had known when she and Cony had left.

He found his feet and looked around. Isobella was back to reading her book, a small bandage over her temple. She glanced up at him and saluted before returning to her reading.

The zeppelin wasn't so busy now that night was in its middle, so he had no trouble maneuvering around. He could not find Cony, but he knew she was here. After a while, he decided to go to Marisa's quarters, assuming the worst. It was empty. Next, the refectory. Empty, except for a couple of older Defias with cups of cocoa and wooly hats on, talking in low voices. He didn't like this.

His search eventually brought him to the top deck, where he found her, curled up in a blanketed ball, sobbing. Next to her sat Marisa, who was crooning to her, tucking her wet hair behind her ears and holding her close. Conyeri didn't seem to care; he eyes were glassy and vacant, as though she had given up on seeing things. She still wore a bandana, though Marisa had turned around the right way, her ownership proudly displayed.

"Evening, Master Shaw," she greeted him, but softly, not filled with malice. "What brings you back so early?" he gestured to Conyeri, and Marisa, who has suspected such, merely nodded and stood up. "Baby-sit for me, would you? I haven't eaten yet and the other girl is still somewhere around."

"Oh-okay…" Why on earth was Marisa Du'Paige being reasonable? Allowing him to be with Conyeri. He shivered, thinking that she must have already done something so massive as to even incur a little guilt, and emotion that Marisa _never_ felt, so that had to be something big. As she left, he sat down beside her. She didn't register his presence, just cried and stared in front of her, shivering occasionally.

"Cony…" he sighed and put an arm around her. "It's so long since I've properly talked to you last- maybe a month, but it seems so much longer…" he took in a big breath of cold air. "I gather things down your street aren't so good?"

No answer. Geylan sighed. "I hate Marisa. She's… everything you're not. She doesn't deserve to even _know_ you, let alone be all over you. She just fucks you up and expects you to deal with it…

"You're seventeen years old. I'm twenty. Harrman is… I don't know, maybe between the two. Dez is twenty-seven. Marisa is twenty-four. Why am I listing our ages… oh, we're just so young, and I feel ancient. My youth is a far memory. I hardly had one, training to be a rogue so hard to please my father, but when I think of what, in ten years, you'll remember about your childhood… Gods, no, I mustn't cry."

She seemed to hear him, but her face moved without her eyes, that remained passive. She looked nice, well fed and strong, her skin had a healthy glow, but nevertheless, Geylan got the impression that something inside her had died. A spirit, her flame of life, had finally burnt out, leaving her a jumble of negativity and doubts. "Cony… you know we all love you, right? Me, Dez, Harrman… We'll stick by you. Whatever she did, we'll never hate you… to us you're important."

He moved so he was staring directly into her eyes. "You're important to me, Cony."

She cried harder, and he shushed her, letting the broken girl bask in his warmth, his spirit, holding her close until the sky became light and she stopped weeping, her breathing rhythmic and deep, fast asleep. He thought to himself that she must feel horrible, but she looked beautiful in the light of dawn, like a sleeping angel.

The ship began to get busier as the day wore on, but they didn't move, even when Geylan knew Conyeri had woken up and was just enjoying not having to run away from anything. At around midday, she stirred from under his arm, and looked at him. Her deep, brown eyes weren't glassy, but scarred, filled with unimaginable horrors.

"Geylan…" she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder. "I-"

"Shhh." He silenced her. "Don't talk. Don't tell me about it; don't make excuses for anyone's behavior. Don't think about anything. Just… exist."

"I can't, Geylan. It's too big… I…" she hiccupped. "Thank you."

"Any time. It's so good to see you, I can't express it in words."

"Same."

Silence.

Goblins looked at the two of them occasionally, but for the most part, they were left alone, without need for words. It was a cold day, but they were warm. The wind was harsh, but they were sheltered. They had not eaten, but they were full, simply content in each other's presence.

It was of course ruined by Marisa, who came in carrying an unconscious Rebecca, bridal-style, and dumped her unceremoniously next to them. "Tried to kill herself."

"What?" Geylan asked, confused. "Whose is she?"

"Cony's plus-one." Marisa looked at his face and saw the fleeting jealously. Men were never perfect (unlike her). "Luckily, Isobella knew some technique thing. She'll live."

Conyeri looked at Rebecca and moved out of Geylan's protection, feeling cold and miserable, her little sanctuary broken. She sat by Rebecca and felt her heartbeat, slow and rhythmic, as she recovered. Marisa left, obviously not interested in the emotion.

"How did you come to know her?" Geylan asked, moving beside her.

"I was employed by her family as a stableboy. She was friendly to me, and because of it, she ended up like this…" Conyeri sniffed, holding back tears again. "And now…"

"Are you…?" he let the question go unasked, but she knew anyway.

"She wanted it… she thought I was a boy, but when she found out I wasn't… I guess she still does."

"Do you want it?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "I don't know which of my emotions are mine, or lies, from the fragment." She shivered. "It's horrible, Geylan."

"The fragment?" he asked, so she told him her story, from start to finish, leaving nothing out. Rebecca would wake up when her time came, and meanwhile, they had some catching up to do anyway. His face went from confused to distressed, all the way to amused and back to murderously angry.

"And I thought I'd had it bad," he said afterwards. "I think Dez and Harr are on their way, though. They wouldn't stay in Southshore long."

"But… what is going to happen? We're going to invade Stormwind… the fragment makes me want to, and me doesn't want to. Marisa owns me… she'll make me do it… I just…"

"In the end, everything will… even out. Somehow."

"You're not very good a reassurances." She smiled minimally, brushing some of Rebecca's auburn hair from her mouth. "She was good to me, Geylan. All I did was hurt her."

"That's life for you." He wanted to ask a question he knew was vastly inappropriate in the current circumstances, and though most of his brain told him not to, curiosity got the better of him. "Did you and her…?"

"What?" he gestured and her face went red with embarrassment. "No, Geylan! We kissed, once!"

"Sorry… I just wondered."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you wonder?" she asked him, perplexed. "Why do you care whom I kiss?"

"I…" he went pink. "Cony, I know what Marisa did to you… I don't know. I just wondered if you were ready."

Conyeri smiled sadly and looked at the clear sky. The breeze, however, told her that a storm was coming. A big storm, like the one that had frightened Rebecca in Thesalmar, but worse, a storm that would shake the foundations of Stormwind castle. "I am, Geylan. I know it sounds odd, but… after yesterday, I'm not scared any more. I want to live outside Marisa's shadow, not constantly stop myself from doing things I want to do purely because I think she wouldn't like me to do it."

"She owns you."

"She owns me, but only when she wants. I can't help that… I'm stupid. But I'm going to live, not just exist."

"Tha's pretty deep shit, Miss DeHayerrrsay." Cony flung her arms around Dez's beefy shoulders as he reached them, happy to see him again. Harrman was a bit too frail for a full flinging, but he hugged her warmly all the same. Seeing them brought tears to her eyes; the gang was together again. Then, she saw that the man from yesterday, P-P, was with them. He meekly greeted them.

"Oh, Dez, Harr, I thought you might not come!" Geylan hopped over Rebecca's comatose form and also hugged the both of them. Friendship was palpable in the air.

"Dez?" P-P asked, remembering something. "What is that short for?"

"Nuthin'." Dez said rather quickly. P-P noticed this and smiled.

"You wouldn't happen to be Enides Farlcairn III, would you?"

"Whut?" Dez roared, his bald head going the same colour as Cony's bandana. "How did ye find that out?"

"Your father."

"Oh, dad. He'll be in big trouble next I see 'im."

"He's dead." P-P said, guilt pushed out of his voice. "I spoke with him the night before he was assassinated."

"Oh." Dez subdued, playing with the silver ring on his finger. "Well, people don' live forever, an' he had a good run, considerin' 'is job."

"You're not upset?" P-P asked incredulously.

"I'd rather honour his memory than mourn his loss. A person's life is better remembered that way." Dez smiled at P-P who shrugged and slinked off, uncomfortable with not being part of the tight friendship group.

"_Enides Farlcairn III_?" Harrman asked, very, very slowly, a huge smile spreading across his face. Dez groaned and nodded, causing Harrman to explode into hoots of laughter, and they all ended up snickering at the silly name.

"Tha' 'minds me- since dad's dead, I got me a shitload of inheritance."

"You're rich?" Geylan asked. "I've never heard of the Farlcairn family."

"Lakeshire nobles. Me dad went bad, so did I, but we got our old money saved, see? Tho' the Stormwind moneygrubbers will take somethin' like forty per-bloody-cent if I want it legally."

"Then take it illegally, duh." Harrman rolled his eyes. "Have we all forgotten we're Defias?"

"When ye grow up, Harr, yeh'll find that not everything works our 'ow ye want ter." Dez patted his head, and then ruffled his hair. Harrman indignantly started shouting at him, and Cony and Geylan left them to playfully fight it out on the deck.

Rebecca woke up at sunset, the first thing she saw being Cony and Geylan leaning over her, looking bored. Once Cony noticed she was up, her face quickly became disapproving. Rebecca groaned and sat up, accepting the blanket that was offered to her, as it was cold and she was still not wearing very much, a fact that Harrman had quickly noticed.

"Conyeri is not happy," Cony said in the third person. "Becca, really, suicide?"

"I thought she was going to kill you," Rebecca replied sheepishly. "And then they'd find me and… I was desperate."

"Still…"

"Cony, you can't really talk," Geylan scolded her. Rebecca looked at him, confused. "She doesn't know who I am, Cony."

"This is Geylan… Mathias Shaw's son."

Rebecca regarded him and then Cony, shrugging and holding out a hand, which he took and shook gently. There was an immediate tension between the two and Conyeri cursed herself. She realized that she'd become the object of affection to a group of rather dangerous people. An insane, addiction-addled Defias leader, a trained assassin, and a trainee mage with less tact in her body than blood elves had testosterone. She sighed to herself and thanked the powers that be, instead of complaining, that at least some people loved her. She was, honestly, cursed with a shitty life but blessed with excellent friends to live it with.

_Hurry up._

She ignored the fragment's demands. They had been plaguing her all day, also when she slept. And she definitely understood how Marisa had been driven insane. The fragment was demanding, constantly badgering her in a deep, booming voice, blocking out other conversation. She stretched and realized she was rather hungry.

"Let's get something to eat. You haven't eaten anything made by Cookie yet, Becca- it'll make the chocolate butterbuns from the Gilded Rose seem like stale bread."

"I don't mind, the company is good, anything would be wonderful."

Conyeri groaned again, but was glad that she was distracted. With the fragment constantly telling her to summon the worgen and destroy Stormwind, and with Marisa waiting to make her do just that, she was glad. Glad that, for once, she was back to the good days, like when Marisa had been away on business. Like carnie.

However, Marisa _was_ here. The fragment _was_ demanding, and the invasion of Stormwind _was_ impending. She couldn't stop it, short of killing herself. And she didn't want to. She had Geylan and Rebecca and Dez and Harrman, and she wouldn't do that to them. They'd survive; they'd live through it.

_Hurry up, Conyeri DeHayersae._

_-_

A/N W00t! Lots happened. Some nice firendshippy scenes. Some plot. I didn't originally plan for it to go this fast, but w/e.

BTW, everyone knows about the expansion cataclysm, rite? Well, how psychic was I that I had the worgen in this, and as good guys? Also, weird thing. In one of my songs on my YT (I write shitty WoW parodies. Well, mostly shitty), called 'A Song for Outland', there is one line that goes:

"Blizzard, in their infinite wisdom, caused a Cataclysm."

OMG. I wrote that even before WotLK was released. How weird is that, that I guessed the name of the expansion?

And I'm totally making a worgen called Tavalan or Talavan (cant remember, not bothered to scroll up) , first thing. Look them up, THEYRE ALLY! W00t, we get the cool race, horde get shitty goblins~!

Ok, OMGness over.

~Emmy


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Warning: in this chapter, there is an explicit account of a hanging. This may disturb some people. This is the last chapter.

The Brotherhood

Chapter Nine

The first snow of winter was usually a great event in Westfall, which did not get that much usually. The fields would become the battlegrounds for giant snowballs fights, and every year on the Winter Solstice, farmer Saldean would set up a mock game of capture the flag, emulating the battle in Warsong Gulch, in which all the children from the surrounding farmsteads would team up and pelt each other with snow until one side captured the flag three times.

This year, however, there were no laughing children in the fields. No farmer Saldean, no snowmen. Just a thick blanket of white obscuring the Westfall earth and a very cold group of Defias on board the zeppelin, nursing cups of tea or cocoa and wearing wooly hats and thick coats.

Amongst these was Conyeri, barely any of her face visible between her dark-blue knitted hat and the perpetual bandana she had to wear. In her gloved hands, a porcelain cup that was half-empty, containing coffee with far too much sugar in. She was leaning on the railings at the front of the zeppelin, her elbows propped up, looking out at the open sky vacantly. The zeppelin's horn sounded after perhaps ten minutes, and she reluctantly left her position, descending down deeper into the ship, where it was still deathly cold. The news that this year's winter would be all the worse due to the Lich King's freezing influence from Northrend had not surprised her.

Barely able to hold her pen, she began the small test that Marzy had set them- lessons did not end even if Stormwind was about to be invaded. The rest of the group of trainees eyed her with suspicion, loathing, and most scarily, fear. Nobody knew what had happened to her when she'd escaped, so naturally, everybody had heard, and they didn't treat her any better for it.

Her only reprieve was going to see Geylan and the rest of her friends after classes had finished. Rebecca had been a problem though. She wasn't a Defias, she was an Alterac noble, and the fact that she was missing was not going to be kept quiet. Conyeri had told Rebecca that it would be better if she went home, but she vehemently refused, saying that she couldn't now, not when all of this was happening. She missed her mother, she missed Cefflan, but they were safer up there. Safe, away from the impending destruction of Stormwind.

"Time's up." Marzy said and she dropped her freezing pen from her freezing hands, sitting back on her freezing chair and watching the rest of the freezing students do exactly the same. She'd already forgotten what the test was about. Marzy lingered by her desk, looking down at her with a pity she neither wanted nor felt she deserved. After they were done, there was something to do with throwing knives that they were to practice. Cony, on auto-pilot, held the freezing metal in her freezing fingers and wondered if she had ever been this cold in her entire life, not just in body, but in mind. It was as though the time she wasn't in the company of Geylan or the rest of them, she was cryogenically frozen, unable to do anything with enthusiasm.

_And it will only get worse. Conyeri DeHayersae, you test my patience._

The fragment, hearing her thoughts, was speaking to her again, its anger palpable, as it had been over the last week and a half, practically bursting with impatience. It had not waited thousands of years, to only have a tiny amount of worgen leaked into the recesses of Azeroth, and now it was in the body of someone who was able to perform a mass summoning, it wasn't allowed to. Conyeri wouldn't until she had to, and then she'd do it without Marisa's intervention. She was not going to let the woman have any more control over her than she could help.

A throwing knife slipped from her hand the wrong way and flew to her right, where Harrman was retrieving a couple of his own. She thought back to the first lesson they'd had, when Marzy had thrown on into his leg for his stupidity. Now, though, he was faster, noticing the projectile and moving out of the way, letting it hit the wooden paneling with a soft _thunk_. He smiled meekly at her and pulled it out sliding it across the floor to her feet. She took it thankfully with fumbling hands.

"No stalling," Marzy cuffed her over the head, knocking her hat off. Cold air rushed into her ears and she apologized, picking it up and jamming to on again. She returned to her throwing dully, hitting her target nearly perfectly each time.

The time passed and her arms grew tired, and soon the horn rang out again and the trainees put their boots back on and left Marzy's classroom, shivering. By now, friendship groups had been established and nobody talked to Cony. Harrman stayed a distance away from her, not trusting himself around the unstable person she was.

Conyeri sighed. In a week, she had collapsed, cried, thrown up, jerked involuntarily whenever she was trying to talk properly and tried to push Rebecca off the side of the zeppelin. It was living hell.

Perhaps not, she thought, as she wound her way down to the refectory, where she sat at the designated table that their little group sat at, reveling in the warmth of the near kitchens. Most Defias ended up down here, talking, reading books, drinking not liquid. It was surreal.

"Cony," Geylan greeted her, pushing a plate of supper he had fetched for her in front of her as she sat down. There was wariness, though, it the way he did it, that took into account her new problems, of which there were many. "How were lessons?"

"Cold and boring," she sighed and stabbed her fork into a piece of steak. "Geylan… My life sucks."

"Maybe, but after the invasion, it'll all be over."

"No, it won't. The…" she lowered her voice. "The _fragment_ isn't just going to jog on once I've summoned a couple thousand worgen. There could be millions of them waiting to come through… to destroy the entire world."

"That sounds rather apocalyptic…" Rebecca put her tray down next to Cony's. She alone was not afraid to sit next to her, to touch her. She was still in the mindset that she was Connor, the stablehand, despite all she'd seen that showed otherwise. A part of her wanted to stop her, because it was dangerous, but mostly she was just bloody grateful that someone would go within a metre of her.

"How was your day of sitting in a dark room pretending not to exist?" Conyeri asked dryly.

"Interesting, actually. Marisa gave me some books to read about magic."

"What? Marisa hates you."

"Well, she didn't actually _give_ me the books, so to speak…" Rebecca fidgeted nervously.

"You stole them from her room!" Conyeri realized, eyes wide. "Becca, you're dead."

"She'll never notice, she's insane and there's hundreds of them in there…"

Conyeri looked at her with abandon and just took another big mouthful of steak, soothing her nerves with hot food. She made a mental note to knit Cookie something for the solstice, if she ever got the time, or if the fragment let her sit still long enough to. At that thought, she turned her head to the side as though she had been slapped, causing Rebecca to jerk around. Painfully, she brought it back to the centre, gripping the table with her gloved hands.

"Sorry." She said. "Involuntary."

"I know," Rebecca smiled and took a drink. "Your life sucks, Connor."

"Nice to know." She said sarcastically, but she knew it was Rebecca's way of saying that she was okay with everything, which was certainly a difficult thing to do after being a noble, spoilt mage for most of her life.

"I miss Cefflan. He'd love all of this."

"Eh?"

"Not the killing and the being evil and all that… the community. In the mage tower, it's more of a solitary thing, and I reckon he yearns for friends to have a good kick-around, like a normal boy would."

"I still think you should be going home," Cony told her, much to her chagrin. "Don't look at me like that, I have only your wellbeing in mind."

"Cute, but unnecessary," she insisted. "Seriously, Connor… I don't agree with what you're all about to do, but, as I am selfish and spoilt, I'd rather be up here out of harms way than down there."

"Sensible," Geylan remarked. Cony glared at him and decided not to pursue it, knowing she would lose. Once the food was finished, she left the tray by the washing-up hatch and pulled her coat over her tighter, anticipating the biting wind outside. When she did, however, reemerge, she found that it was snowing lightly. Behind her, Rebecca giggled like the child she was and started to bend down in order to make a snowball, which Geylan hastily stopped.

"Rebecca… we're not here for snowball fights and fun. I know you want to, but you can't. It's all very… dour, at the moment."

"Oh." She let the snow fall from her hands. "Sorry."

"I'm going to go inside." Cony said, thinking of her cold room, and then thinking better of it. "Screw that, I'm going back down there."

"No, you're not," Geylan's hand caught her shoulder as she turned. "Cony, we have more important things to do than mope down there."

"Like what?" she asked icily. "Talk more about my problems? Or we could sit and talk awkwardly with Dez and Harrman, perhaps?"

"Cony…" his face softened. "No, no, nothing like that… I think we should be thinking about what to do during and after the invasion."

"Let's talk now, Geylan. During the invasion, I'll release a shitload of worgen to Stormwind. They'll kill everyone. Then, afterwards, I'll become a human worgen-portal, living out my life doing what Marisa says." Tears began streaking down her cheeks and she wiped them away, not wanting to have another breakdown in front of either of them. "No need to discuss it."

"That's not what will happen!" Rebecca said angrily, her breath misting in front of her and obscuring her face. "Marisa can't invoke that right of possession if you're separated by a power larger than she is, I read it."

"So _that _was why you stole her books." Geylan said under his breath, but everyone heard it anyway. "But what power is larger than Marisa?"

"I looked."

"Did you find anything?"

Rebecca hesitated. "Well, you either need to be claimed by a _more_ powerful mage, or separated by a barrier, of sorts, more powerful than Marisa could break. Some example of these kinds of barriers…" she gulped. "The barrier between life and death… or the one between Azeroth and Outland… but that would only work if the Dark Portal was closed."

"So…" Conyeri worked it out. "We'd have to kill her."

"Yes."

"How? None of us are powerful enough to actually harm her." Cony's mind whirred. "Maybe if she was magically incapacitated?"

"But how would we get rid of her magic?" Geylan asked, and Cony and Rebecca exchanged looks. "What do you two know that I don't?"

"How to suck someone's magic out of them."

"Then why don't you do it?" He asked, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I could… I could do it the black way, if I had the spell…" Rebecca said uncertainly. "But she would probably notice and stop me straight away, and the legal way… well, she wouldn't do it with me, for sure."

"Why? You're up her alley- female, young and innocent. Dark hair, that's a plus too." Conyeri almost smiled. "I know. She's fixated."

"Can you use magic, though? I saw you do it to Nightly, but that was a really small trick."

"I can… I can try, at least. If you teach me." Rebecca reddened. "Teach me the spell, Becca. Honestly, one-track mind."

"Of course. Spell. Right you are… I'll have to find it, first."

"I'm being left out of the loop," Geylan accused them. Conyeri looked at him, her cheeks reddening despite the cold. "You can tell me, whatever it is."

"Geylan… don't get mad, okay?"

"…I don't want to hear this, do I?"

"No, but… it may be our only chance to break Marisa's hold on Connor." Rebacca said, her arms snaking around Conyeri's, clinging to her in a possessive way, but also a little out of the cold. They were still standing on the deck.

"Tell me."

"To… drain someone of magical power, you can either do it with black magic, against someone's will, or… they can sort of give it to you in subtext. During sex… then you can take it easiest."

Geylan's pace paled then reddened with anger. "No! You're not going to have to do that again! I won't let Marisa-"

"If you don't let me do this, you let her own me forever."

He stopped and stared into her eyes, his blue ones holding a deep hurt. He really didn't want her to have to do this. He was concerned. "Is that your only option?"

"Unless you can gather a small army of Defias who will attack her even though she is their direct superior, then yes."

He sighed. "So what will you do once you've drained her?"

"I'll… I'll need you and Rebecca. Would you attack her?"

"For you."

"Then you'll need to jump out of the shadows and help me kill her, manually." She kept her voice low in case anyone was listening. "I think perhaps during… sex, she'll not notice if you creep in. Your best stealth. And Rebecca will need to seal the door. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Then… gods, I don't want to do this." She sucked in a jarringly cold breath to steady herself as the fragment propelled the feeling of glee into her. It wanted her to kill Marisa, because it wanted her to continue on her evil path and summon the worgen, but it also was unsure if she'd summon the worgen without Marisa's control. The glee dampened as was replaced by anticipation. Either way, it would eventually have its wish. "Right… I'll… do it after the worgen go into Stormwind. I'll pretend I paid attention to what she told me, that I'm… like her."

"You're not." They both said at once, two sets of loving eyes soothing her. Geylan spoke first.

"I told you that you weren't straight after, Cony, and I meant it. I know you."

"Agreed."

"Thanks, you two…" Cony let herself be hugged from both angles. "Soon enough, we'll all get out of here. Without the Defias to chase us and Stormwind to persecute us, we'll go somewhere and live happily. Me, you two, Dez, Harrman, maybe Jack and Alt… and even Isobella, if she wants."

"Happy families." Rebecca giggled. "Who are the mum and dad, though?"

"Dez and Harrman." Geylan joined in, a smile lighting up his face. They knew what Conyeri was going to do and they knew they couldn't stop it. "And… Alt can be the grandfather… Isobella the grandmother. We'll be the kids and Jack can be the dog."

"Marisa can be the scarecrow."

"Very scary indeed."

They laughed and talked out there, in the biting cold.

-

The Defias were not people for ceremony, so when the time came for the zeppelin to cut her tethers, just shy of new year, there was no rallying speech or great party. Just anticipation of revenge and vindication, on the people of the Alliance who had so spurned them.

Conyeri was at the very front, standing next to Marisa, who was flagging Alt and another metal-man who was flicking through April's issue of _The Ashenvale Post_, for some reason. The goblin transporter was working, whirring and smoking a little, its sister smack-bang in the middle of Stormwind, in the centre of Old Town, where Dash was waiting for them. As a ripple of readiness passed over the assembled Defias, Cony chanced a look at Geylan and Harrman, who stood with the 'sneakies', or so the thugs called those who operated as assassins. Dez was easily visible for his ridiculous shock-pink bobble hat and his thick, gleaming mail armour. Rebecca was hiding somewhere.

"Right. Let's be off, then." The metal-man closed and rolled up the _Post_ and tucked it into a pocket sewed into his hip. He turned to the assembled. "Kill anything not wearing a bandana."

And with that, they were off. Marisa took her wrist and they were the first through, the feeling of being turned inside out worse than a couple of weeks ago. They opened their eyes to find themselves in Old Town, as promised, with a few rag-tag thugs standing around them.

"Lass!" Dash sounded confused. "What ye be… oh." He realized that she was the fragment's host. "Where is Conyeri, Marisa? What did ye do with 'er?"

"She's right here, Dashel. Just a little different than you remember."

"Ye son of a-"

"Language." She smiled, showing her brilliant teeth. Conyeri felt the fragment within her swelling, like a heartbeat quickening with excitement. It was here she had to be horrible. Here she had to be the person Marisa said she was, to save the rest of her life.

"Dash." She greeted him. "Nice to see you again."

"Oh, Conyeri, ye look…"

She grinned at him, doing her best to look nasty. Disturbingly, it came naturally. "Better, I know. I made better choices, Dash."

He looked as though he was about to cry. "If that's what ye want, lass… if that's who ye are."

"It is." She turned to Marisa, who was amused. "Do I… start now?"

"Yes… no right of possession?"

"No, I can do it myself." She said huffily. Marisa raised her eyebrows and leant back against the transporter. "Right…"

_Finally._

She let the fragment do what it wanted, feeling instantly torn away from reality. She straddled the line between the world that the worgen came from and Azeroth, nauseous, alone. The worgen's world was barren and gloomy, the sky dark and the ground rough. Howls in the night came from all around her, and soon worgen of all kinds were drawn to her, amassing, scrambling over each other. They found her and passed straight through, each taking a little of her energy, each loosening her mind. It wasn't painful, just… unnatural. She squirmed in Azeroth, feeling someone take her hand. The worgen's world faded a little and she was struck with the image of both places meshed together, a parody of her home world, burning, drear… and still the worgen came, bloodthirsty and elated, having escaped their eternal hell.

Her vision darkened and her usually excellent senses dulled, and she felt herself panting. If she continued, she knew she'd die. What a reprieve it would be, to die now, to detach herself from everything and escape the horrible fate she'd made for herself. Then, she thought of Rebecca and Geylan, who had looked at her just a couple of days before, their eyes full of love and care. She couldn't let herself be swept away. Painfully, she ripped herself from the worgen world, tumbling to the ground in Azeroth, utterly spent.

When she had her wits enough about her, she heard the screaming. The pitter-patter of boots, the thump of worgen feet, the smell of blood and fear, hot on the heavy air.

"Conyeri," A soft voice soothed her frayed nerves, taking her under the arms and dragging her into the shade. "Conyeri, can you hear me?" She mumbled something, concentrating on breathing. "Conyeri, it's Isobella."

Isobella? Why was she here? Why was she even helping? The cold, glass rim of a flask touched her lips and she drank gratefully, the slightly bitter potion marvelously warm on her freezing limbs. Disappointed that it had finished, she let Isobella remove the flask and prop her up. She mourned at how weak she was, seeming always relying on other people.

"Was it okay? I've never made a major potion like that before…"

"Y-yeh…" she opened her eyes, pupils dilating at the low light. It was already evening. "Why...?"

"You killed Nightly. Thank you."

"What?"

"He- I used to think of him as a big brother, as you know… but after a while, he stopped being nice to me when not in public. He wanted me for other things… sort of like you and Miss Du'Paige."

"Oh." Poor girl. Being female seemed to invariably get you fucked (Conyeri, Isobella) or fucked-up (Marisa). "Thanks."

"No problem… I rarely get a chance to test my potions anyway."

"You like healing, don't you?" she realized, thinking back to their first camp, when she had looked at peace tending to Jack. "But you're being made to be a rogue…"

She nodded sadly and white light covered her hands. "The more lessons I have, the less I can do it."

"Then become a healer. Nobody will stop you. Got steal books from the cathedral."

"I might, but at the moment I'm acting as a field medic."

"Good on you." Conyeri stood herself up and found her weakness had faded. "That was a good potion. Thank you, again."

She nodded and hefted a bag onto her shoulder, which Conyeri presumed held medical supplies. It looked heavy, but she carried it with pride. They left the small square in central Old Town together then parted ways, and Conyeri saw the full extent of the havoc wreaked of Stormwind, but this was not where the main fighting was going on. She jogged steadily through Old Town and up to Stormwind Keep, passing dead guards and deader worgen and Defias on the way. It was bloody carnage.

The whole keep was roaring with battle, the snarling of worgen and the shouts of humans causing a din, added to by the clash of blades. Conyeri snuck in, stealthed, heading along the main corridor. She'd never been in here before, so she followed her intuition. As she crested the inclining walkway, she saw a scene that was odd, because it was quiet and still, unlike the carnage around her.

A man she instinctively knew was King Varian Wrynn stood, facing the metal-man who had been reading the _Post_ earlier. They regarded each other levelly. Then, in a blur of movement, they were together, swords clashing, beginning a deadly dance of metal. They ducked and parried, jumped and sidestepped, both masters of their craft. Conyeri would have watched with all her attention, but a young dwarf spotted her, a lumbering bear at his side, and long gashes down his face but a snarl underneath his beard. She wove around the bear, blinding it and rolling to thrust upwards at the hunter, who hastily blocked it with his bow. The wood snapped under the force of her dagger, leaving her to boot him in the face. Remorseless, she severed his thick, muscled neck, which took a bit of hacking, then put the thrashing bear down swiftly.

Next, she moved onto a Stormwind guard, who was just recovering from decimating a worgen, nursing a severed hand. Taking advantage of that, she disarmed him with the very same move Geylan had taught her and, being cheap as she was, kneed him in the privates. He went down and she finished him off, feeling adrenaline pumping through her veins. She wasn't trained, but she had the fragment on her side. She felt stronger, faster, and almost indestructible. The fragment didn't want its host to die, and so went to every effort to keep her alive.

She turned back to where the king and the metal-man were fighting. The metal-man was losing, but only by a bit, being forced further back towards the wall. Varian was insanely skilled, wielding his weapons like extensions of his arms. He was completely absorbed. Malice struck her and she stealthed, maneuvering behind him and waiting for the metal-man to force him back enough for her to perform a backstab. She was stopped when two worgen, rushing at two elves behind her, knocked her to the ground and broke her stealth. Cursing, she jumped up, but she had been seen. Deciding that this was not the place to be, she dashed out of the keep, until she saw the blue roves of the trade district that she remembered.

She was stopped only once along the way by a Defias, his armour bloody. He asked her if she had seen VanCleef. She sad no, and realized she'd never actually met the man. The trade district, compared to the keep, was well organized, a tide of worgen and Defias meeting Stormwind guards and occupants, formed into an arrowhead formation. She noticed that it was because Marisa was here, directing the forces. She slipped around the back, looking for the Gilded Rose. It was where she would go to wait for herself if she was Geylan.

The main door was barricaded, so she worked her way into the stables, up to the loft and through the small window into the lounge. Inside sat most of the maidstaff, a good number of gossiping girls and Darron, speaking to Allison in a hushed voice, holding a broadsword. They all screamed when she dropped in.

"Geylan's not here." She said, disappointed.

"Connor?"

"Hey!" she greeted them all, pulling the bandana to her neck. She couldn't take it off, but she could move it. "Miss me?"

Darron, the quickest over the initial shock, saw the bandana and rushed, sword raised. He was even less trained than she was, his strokes slow and clumsy. She backhanded him and let him remain unconscious, looking away, not trusting herself – or the fragment- to hold back. She started to walk out, thinking where she could find Geylan, when someone else dropped from he stable loft window.

"Becca?" she groaned, but stopped when a fireball narrowly missed her right ear. "What are you doing?"

"Behind you." She gestured to a rat of a man, brandishing a dagger that was more accurately described as a letter opener. "He's been following you since the keep. I'm surprised you didn't notice."

"I was pre-occupied." She helped her down from on top of the mantlepiece. "You were supposed to stay on the zeppelin."

"I wasn't allowed. They went through all of the rooms and chucked me down here."

"Ouch." Conyeri rubbed her ear, which was lightly scalded. "Do you know where Geylan is?"

"He's back aboard. Connor, you're losing. Stormwind is beating the worgen."

"Then I have to summon more? I can't do it again- I almost died the first time." She grimaced at the memory. "We need to get to the keep, I think."

"I agree." She looked back at the staff of the Gilded Rose. "You make very nice chocolate butterbuns, by the way."

Conyeri kicked down the barricade from the inside and led Rebecca out, leaving the stunned maidstaff inside.

"So we need to run, back to the transporter."

"Can't, it was destroyed."

"Then find someone's hearthstone."

"We just need to get to the keep. There's a stash of them in the library with Lord Lescovar." Rebecca stated knowledgably. "Sorry, I stole the papers while you lot were already down here."

They ran to the keep, this time not so easily. There were more guards than worgen, now, and more than once Conyeri had to pull them into alleys to avoid being attacked.

_Summon more, you fool!_

The fragment was not happy, but she told it she was not physically able to. They reached the keep and slipped past the amassing citizens, but Cony didn't know where the library was, and nor did Rebecca. They ended up missing the right corridor altogether and ending up in the main throne room, where Varian and the metal-man were _still_ fighting, though now the metal-man had a bigger advantage.

As they watched, P-P materialized behind the metal-man, sword in hand, and plunged it straight into his back. Why the hell was he doing that? He was on their side! Or not…

"Triple agent!" She shouted at him, forgetting secrecy as rage rose within her. P-P shrugged.

"They offered me a better deal."

"Scum!"

From nowhere came seven or eight guards, who grabbed Cony and Rebecca's arms and crushed them behind them, holding them still. They were all human, and the shard panicked, thinking it was about to be destroyed. They dragged the two of them out of the keep, through the streets, Conyeri struggling and Rebecca crying. People were re-emerging from their houses and Defias were panicking, some reaching for their hearthstones and others simply committing suicide. Cony admired their strength.

There was no trial- one wasn't needed, and quicker than they could perceive, a cell door was being closed on them.

The Stockade.

It had been the first port of call for the invading Defias, who had freed all the occupants, but now it was back under Stormwind's control and rapidly filling with Defias that hadn't been killed or just attacked on the spot my more vindictive guards. Conyeri's weapon had been taken, and she and Rebecca were in their own cell- for a while, at least. Along came Marisa, with the metal-man who had been stabbed, who hobbled painfully. Lastly, a man she didn't recognize, who had long, scraggly hair and pale skin, who looked like he'd already been down here for years.

"Well, that was successful." Marisa kicked a stone and struggled with the cuffs they'd put her in, which stopped her using magic.

"It would have been had Patrick not been working for them." The metal-man said calmly. "He took out the transporter early on and systematically murdered a great number of Defias- ouch." He winced and he sat down, his wound bleeding. "Though not particularly useful to us, I commend him for carrying his deception out so successfully."

"Not the right thing to say right now, Edwin." The pale man said. Then she realized- the metal-man was Edwin VanCleef, the leader of the Defias, who had been killed once and brought back by the goblins. She was slightly awed, but felt very out of place amongst the Defias kingpins. "Who are these two?"

"Conyeri DeHayersae, our worgen provider, and her plus-one." Marisa introduced them. "She got put with us because she's wearing a mageweave bandana."

"Why is she?"

"I gave it to her so I could enact the right of magical possession." Marisa explained. "The other one happened to be with her, so I guess they lumped them together. Damn, I wish we could get two cells down. There's an exit."

"Not anymore." VanCleef said. "They caved them all in. The stockade is no longer ours, unfortunately."

"Shit." She swore and looked around grumpily. "So we're not getting out."

"Rebecca can make a portal, they didn't cuff her." Conyeri realized. "Can you?"

Rebecca was silent for a moment. "In perhaps a day, when I have enough mana… I did quite a few spells today."

"Good, then. Tomorrow, when the baby mage has mana, we can get out of here. I set her portals to default to the zeppelin last time she cast one."

The relief in the room increased. "For the moment, we wait, then, and sleep." VanCleef said reasonably. Rebecca and Cony huddled together.

"Gods, I'm so sorry, Becca." Conyeri said, trying to get comfy on the hard stone floor. "I royally messed up everything."

"Don't. We'll be out of here tomorrow, and then we'll see Geylan again. And maybe Dez and Harrman."

"That's optimistic at best. Your portal might not work this time, or…"

Rebecca silenced her with a light kiss. "Connor, Conyeri, whatever…" she stared into her eyes. "I just want to tell you, if what you're thinking about really does happen, if we don't get out of this… that I'm honoured to be here with you."

"No, Becca, no! Not now!" she started crying. "I don't know what I want! I don't even know if I'll wake up tomorrow morning! I don't know what I feel for you, or Geylan… now isn't the time for this…"

"It is the only time, Connor. I may never speak to you again."

"I thought you were an optimist."

"Now I'm being a realist. We either get out or we don't, but I wanted you to know that."'

"I didn't want to know it," she said honestly. "Why couldn't you not say it, just for one night… gods." He started properly crying, hiccupping. Rebecca took her hand in her own, shaky one.

"Whatever you choose. It's your choice."

They fell asleep.

-

Cefflan didn't like portals- they made him nauseous, but he had to take one this time. It was for his sister, who was in Stormwind. His mother wouldn't tell him why, after not using her magic for several years, she would go so far as to make a portal, but he felt her sense of urgency and complied, even though it was very early morning and not even light yet.

They came into the mage tower and descended, lady Ashcroft gripping Cefflan's hand like she hadn't in five years. It embarrassed him. His mother was pale; she hadn't even brushed her hair or fixed her dress properly, so he knew something must be wrong. Stormwind was hideously cold, and his teeth chattered as they walked along the streets. He couldn't quite understand what had gone on, but something had changed. It was then that he saw it- the canals were full of bodies. Worgen and humans and elves and dwarves, all of them, rotting in the water, being dredged out by teams of guards.

Stormwind had just faced an invasion. A swiftly quelled invasion, but at a great cost. Houses were boarded and blood was being scrubbed off the streets, all the occupants in a state of shock. His mother took him around the corner of the mage quarter and he recognized the Stockade, a place he and Rebecca had often passed when going to the Trade district to buy themselves trinkets in the seasonal markets. They were headed there now.

"I demand to see her!" Lady Ashcroft said as soon as they entered the giant building, filled with surly guards.

"What're you on about, lady?" the warden asked, a group of guards moving to block the entrance.

"Rebecca Ashcroft, my daughter! Why is she here? I got the message this evening from the high mage himself!"

"I dunno one from the other, Mrs Ashcroft. If she's down here, it's 'cause she's with them."

"My daughter is _not_ part of the Defias Brotherhood!" Lady Ashcroft spat at him, wilder than Cefflan had ever seen her. She calmed down. "Please. Just to talk to her."

"Well…" he looked around. "A small donation."

"Done." She tossed a bag full of gold at him. He nodded and the guards parted, four of them escorting her down into the newly-Stormwind controlled stockade. They wound deep inside, coming to a large cell holding five persons. They were all asleep.

"Becca!" Cefflan saw his sister and couldn't stop himself, rushing to the bars. "Becca!"

She stirred and opened an eye, the girl next to her doing the same. To his horror, she had a red bandana loosely around her neck and was wearing dark, frayed clothes. She wiped her eyes and looked at him.

"Ceff?" she rose and walked up to the bars. The guards stuck with swords through, preventing her from touching him. "Ceff, what're you doing down… oh." She looked up and saw her mother.

The other girl came up behind her and Cefflan recognized her- it was Connor. Lady Ashcroft gasped as his- her- face came into view. "What is going on?"

"Family visit." She said dryly. "Mother, Ceff, this is Conyeri."

"Connor." Lady Ashcroft looked murderous. "You! You were such a gentleman, you, you, stole my daughter away! I'll kill you!"

The guards told her she couldn't. By now, the rest of the cell's occupants had been woken up. "Becca, what happened?"

"It's quite a long story, involving night elf goddesses and worgen and zeppelins…" she sighed and looked a Cefflan. "I didn't mean for any of it to happen, but it did. I had to leave to protect you both. Actually, to protect you from this young woman here."

Marisa gave a comically cheery wave. "I did thinking of destroying your manor and torturing your family, but the scythe would have none of it. It was Conyeri or bust."

"Becca," Cefflan didn't understand. "Why are you in here?"

"I…" she sighed. "I did some bad things, Ceff."

"But you're not a bad person." He looked at Conyeri. "Nor is Connor. Connor is fun and kind."

"Good people do bad things sometimes." Behind Rebecca, VanCleef and Marisa were watching the visit with amusement. Neither had family to visit them.

"When are you released?" Lady Ashcroft demanded. "How can I get you released?"

The warden, who had caught up with them, answered the question. "Really, she's not actually meant to be in the high-priority cell. She was just with the wrong person at the time of capture and was put in there. Most of the minor Defias face life imprisonment down here… though it could be significantly shortened."

"Thelwater is as crooked as Edwin's nose." The unhealthy looking man with them explained. "Ain't that right?"

"Shut it, Thredd. Come sunrise, you're finally a dead man."

He shut up.

"How much for her immediate release?" Lady Ashcroft asked, anxious to get Rebecca out, regardless of what she'd done or not done, which she hadn't exactly asked yet.

"Ten thousand gold."

"Done."

"What?" Warden Thelwater's jaw dropped. "I was joking."

"I have ten thousand gold to give. It's not doing anything sitting in our family coffers." She looked at Rebecca. "I'd sell everything I owned for my daughter's life."

"Alright, then…" Thelwater said, still surprised. Lady Ashcroft formed a small portal, as quick as a snap of her fingers, and reached into it. From it, she pulled two massive calico sacks filled to the brim with gold coins.

"Each bag is two-thousand." She explained, looking into the portal and pulling three more out. "That's ten thousand."

The warden, eyes bugged looking at his riches, told the guards to let Rebecca out. They carefully opened the bars and pulled her out, slamming them shut immediately. Conyeri came up to the front and Lady Ashcroft sneered at her. "How much to kill her, here and now?"

"Can't. I'm afraid. She's to be executed with the other three at sunrise. You can buy a front row seat, though."

"Rest assured I will." She said nastily, gripping Rebecca's arm. She tore the bandana off her daughter and charmed her hands behind her back. "You're going to tell me everything in good time, Becca, and I will never trust you again. Ever. No more magic. No more friends."

She led her off, and Rebecca cast a sad glace back at Conyeri who had to watch her leave for much longer than she would have liked due to her enhanced sight. "We're buggered, then." Marisa said. "No baby mage, no portal. Sunrise is on its way. Fuck. Fuck this!" She tacked Conyeri to the ground and growled at her. "Your fault."

"Marisa, don't be childish. It is nobody's fault but our own." VanCleef pulled her off, where she managed to spit at Conyeri before toppling over backwards due to still being cuffed.

As dawn approached, Conyeri began to realize that she was about to die. Not a doubt or a pessimistic musing, but a certainty. Her mouth went dry as she lay on the floor, her stomach roiling. The fragment was strangely silent, considering that its host was about to die. It unnerved her, she was almost becoming used to its constant annoying chatter.

Warden Thelwater came back about three hours after Rebecca had left with an entire squad of guards. Conyeri didn't struggle as they tied her hands behind her back with thick metal cuffs. The four of them, Conyeri, Marisa, VanCleef and Thredd were led out of the Stockade. Surprisingly, all the Defias in the cells saluted as they passed by. When she came closer to the entrance, where the less dangerous Defias were kept, she saw Harrman. He looked at her sadly and Conyeri managed to brush her hand against his as they passed.

They came out into the daylight to fewer jeers that Conyeri had expected. Warden Thelwater nastily told them that most of the crowd was waiting at the newly erected gallows in the centre of the Trade District. They arrived there and were lined up on the gallows. It was a small structure, a raised wooden platform with four crates underneath four nooses. Conyeri was at least a head shorter than the rest of them, so they had to lower her noose. As the cold rope was placed around her neck and tightened, Conyeri's heart beat faster and faster.

Lady Ashcroft was at the front of the crowd, Rebecca bound next to her, smiling. She also saw Darron and Allison by the entrance to the Gilded Rose.

"These four vagrants have been identified as the leaders of the Defias Brotherhood, which conspired to take down Stormwind itself by entering a pact with the vicious worgen." Read a man Conyeri did not recognize as his head was obscured by an executioner's hood. "They are to be put to death by slow hanging before the citizen of Stormwind they conspired against. You are not permitted to hasten their deaths."

The crowd cheered. Everyone liked a good slow hanging.

The executioner turned for the crowd and looked at the four of them. Conyeri, being furthest away from him, was last to have her box pushed from underneath her. He did it slowly, as to ensure they didn't drop too suddenly, and as the wood left her feet, she found herself dangling. Her throat was constricted, yes, but she could still breathe.

It was useless, though, she knew. She'd once seen a Defias being hanged at Sentinel Hill- they died in the end. As she struggled to breathe, her thoughts became clouded. The rope seemed to constrict around her neck, the floor of the gallows getting deceptively nearer. It was she who began breathing heavily first, panicking as her neck strained and her airway couldn't ferry the necessary oxygen to her heart. A drummer began a drum roll and the crowd started chatting excitedly. Bets were being made as to who would go first.

Conyeri looked at Marisa, who was to her right. She was silent save for the having breaths she took, her face paler than even usual.

-

_The scariest thing was when she had got the hang of stealth to a degree, she decided to try and blot herself out to touch. At first, it was as if she were submerged in a very cold bath, then an icy ocean and finally frozen in a block of ice. Every move, every twitch, became a mammoth achievement, but she found that she could place the tips of her fingers through the desk. She was careful not to let Marzon see her experimentation, and stopped shortly after, confused at this new ability._

_-_

Conyeri remembered what she had done in Marzy's classroom. She wondered… was it possible? What would she do, anyway? She'd just be caught. What if… what if she phased through everything, including the floor? Into Stormwind sewers?

Hope came to her, but was quickly swallowed as blackness leaked into the sides of her vision and she found she couldn't breathe anymore.

Wildly, plan forgotten, she thrashed, gurgling. The crowd laughed at her, knowing she was near her end. She couldn't see anything. She couldn't think anything. She was dead, properly, with no Lich King's plague to resurrect her wrongly, with no Eva to save her, no worgen to snuggle with her.

With a horrible crack, the beam on top of the gallows split clean in two and she was abruptly let free, falling onto the foundation, buts she couldn't be happy. Her body was already shutting down. The roar of the crowd was just a buzz in her ears. She thought that perhaps VanCleef, as a metal-man, was heavier than they'd thought, but couldn't hold onto the thought train long enough.

Oddly, she felt rather cold. Sluggish and cramped, claustrophobic, even. She tried to look around, but everything was black.

With a great thump and a splash, she landed in the Stormwind sewers.

_Thank me later, when you will summon more worgen._

Conyeri tried to groan, but her throat was too traumatized to let out a sound. She wanted to fall asleep, but kept breathing deeply, thankful eternally for everything. It must be fate, she thought, that the beam would snap. That she'd remember her little experiment and the fragment would amplify her power. How were the others faring? They could not do what she did. Perhaps Marisa's cuffs had broken and she had made a portal. Perhaps VanCleef had been wearing rocket boots or something. She did not know and did not want to linger on the thought.

As far as I'm concerned, Marisa's dead, she thought. She didn't feel relieved, as she had thought she would, just a little bad about herself.

Deciding not to rot in the stagnant sewer water, Conyeri hauled herself up onto the small pavement, surprised to find herself feeling reasonable okay. As the oxygen got back into her system, she felt stronger, better, and walked along the sewer. Being predictable, she took the left path, which ended up at a crossroads that had a ladder and a manhole. She climbed it and gingerly peeked through. She saw boots and dropped back into the water immediately, cursing herself. Her bearings were completely off, she didn't know north from south or east from west, so she continued left, thinking that it must end eventually.

The sewers didn't- well, the water and the waste did, but the tunnels continued, and as she walked down them, Conyeri felt a prickle of familiarity. She had to stop to rest twice, and she supposed that she'd been walking all day. She was hungry and tired, but the further she traveled, the more the feeling that she'd been here before tickled the back of her mind.

"Gods," she murmured as she came to a small boundary-marker. "Westfall."

Though her voice was hoarse and her neck hurt her like nothing else she'd ever experienced, Conyeri was happy. She had found her way into Westfall, where she should be able to find Camp RUTN. Hope came flooding through her. Everything would be fine… Geylan was on the zeppelin, Harrman, as only a minor Defias, wouldn't be killed… Dez must be somewhere. Rebecca was alive.

-

Rebecca looked at the panic in mild awe, though she could do very little about it as the tight magical bonds her mother had placed on her restricted her movement maximally. All around, guards were shouting, wondering where Conyeri had gone. Rebecca had seen her sink into the ground, and as silly as it sounded, she knew she was fine. Thredd was the only one they'd recaptured, seeing as immediately after the beam had broken, two members of the crowd had thrown hearthstones at Marisa and VanCleef. Marisa caught hers in her mouth, somehow, she ginned before disappearing. VanCleef hadn't had the dexterity, so he'd used his massive strength to break the metal bonds around his arms and pick in up, giving Varian Wrynn a wink before also disappearing.

Knowing that three of their four potential victims were irrevocably gone, the whole crowd had converged on the gallows, heckling for Thredd to be executed. He had merely sighed when a fresh beam had replaced the broken one. The noose was set around his neck and he was hanged, the entire thing taking a disappointing two minutes. The crowd dissipated, unimpressed, and her mother stood up, irritated that Conyeri had gotten away.

"Rebecca, dear." She eyed her daughter. "We have much to discuss, methinks."

"Not really."

"Darling, I found you in the Stockade, wearing a red bandana. That is a discussion point." Lady Ashcroft wearily stepped into the Gilded Rose, where she gestured to a table. Some maids recognized Rebecca from yesterday and shied away from her. They had tea, which she couldn't drink due to her bonds, and Rebecca remained silent and contemplative through it all. Cefflan, despite vehement protests, had been sent back to the mage tower. "So?"

"So what?"

"Don't play smart with me. I paid for your life, Rebecca. You could have been up there today. Tell me what went on."

"Connor ran away from the Defias after they killed his- her- parents and forced her to join them. She needed to get as far away as possible, because Marisa was tracking her. Marisa is a rogue mage, mother- she siphons magic from whole groups of people at once- and she needed a way to get north. We were going north.

"In the end… Marisa caught up with her. I was in danger, so she took me with her to where she thought she could fight Marisa… but she couldn't. So we ended up porting to the Defias zeppelin… I couldn't get off it, the transporter was broken."

"But why not run when you got down here? Why not send me a message?" Lady Ashcroft regarded her daughter through her steely grey eyes.

"I… I wanted to help Connor."

"So it was that boy!" Lady Ashcroft said louder than she had intended, rage bursting out of her. "You liked him. You fancied him and you followed him to what could have been your deathbed!"

"Mother…"

"And even worse, _he _is a _girl_, and even after you knew that, you…" he dabbed a lace handkerchief on her forehead even though it was too cold for sweat. "Rebecca…"

"I can't help it." She shrugged. "I don't see how it matters, anyway… but she likes someone else, anyway. I know."

"Not this Marisa woman?"

"No, a boy. His name is Geylan and he's Master Shaw's runaway son."

Lady Ashcroft sipped her tea in consideration. "I'm trying to think of a punishment."

"I want to go back and find Connor." She said stubbornly. "I know she's alive."

"You will do no such thing. You're coming back to Manor Ashcroft. I'll have you home-schooled in housewifery, and you'll marry a nice gentleman I arrange for you. _That_ is your punishment. I'll not have my daughter show interest in _girls_…" she trailed off. "For now, at least, I'm too weak to make another portal. I'm rather out of practice. So, we'll stay here. I'll lock you in your room and you'll sleep with those bonds on. And in the morning, I'll make a portal."

"Yes, mother." She said bitterly, allowing herself to be led up the stairs, where she was locked in a smallish room. She was about to start crying when she noticed the roof- it was not boarded for the floor above, which was the attic, but slightly inclined. Walking to the far wall, she looked directly up and saw that there was a gap of about a foot. The floor hadn't been competed; instead the high roof of the four-poster bed supported it.

She considered her bound hands and performed an acrobatic feat that she hadn't thought quite possible, switching her hands from behind her to in front by tucking her legs through them. It hurt and something clicked out, but she managed it and excitedly hoisted herself up, first on the headboard of the four-poster and then on the edge of the boards of the room above, pulling herself up with a mighty shove. She needed to get fitter.

Once there she found the window. It overlooked the rooftops of the trade district, but she opened it to find that the roof of the stable-loft was only about a two metres below. She shimmied out of the window and landed softly.

Rebecca Ashcroft was free.

She climbed off the roof into the stable-loft and stole Darron's winter clothes, considering that the guards had taken her outer layers when she'd entered the Stockade in case she was concealing anything. Saying a quick sorry, she grabbed his bag of provisions and descended down the ladder. She considered whether she should take Horsey or Kestor, and decided on Kestor, because Horsey wouldn't last that long, even though she liked him more.

Swallowing her fear of horses, she saddled Kestor like she had seen Connor do and cautiously got onto its back. Kestor recognized her, it seemed, from the time she had ridden it with Connor what seemed like years ago. She walked out of the Inn then got more confident and trotted out of the city. The guards saw the Ashcroft badge she wore on her cloak, the one useful thing that her mother had insisted she wear when she had taken her out of the Stockade. They didn't notice that her hands were magically tied or that she was wearing groom's clothes.

Free of Stormwind, she went to the only place she could think of: Westfall. All the force that was fighting the Westfall border had returned to Stormwind and had not yet returned, so she had no trouble getting through. Being on her own was an entirely new feeling for Rebecca, but she decided she liked it.

She did, however, fall off her horse when a hidden trapdoor by a signpost opened right in front of her and Conyeri hopped out.

"Oh, hello." Conyeri said, not quite sure of what she was seeing. "Becca."

She got up and launched a ferocious hug onto the poor girl, who winced. Rebecca looked at her neck, which showed signs of her hanging. "Oh, by the Light, Connor…"

"Good going… we need to regroup. I need to find Geylan."

Rebecca kept the hug but looked away, not wanting to let Cony see the hurt to her face. Of course, she needed to find Geylan. Though Rebecca knew it, she couldn't accept that Conyeri was really in love with him. It pained her that she couldn't have what she wanted, and she knew that it was immature, but she was a child, after all. She was used to getting what she wanted. She let Conyeri lead the horse, clinging to her waist as she had the night they'd first met, savouring the time she had with just the two of them.

Rebecca had already come to terms with the fact that she liked a girl. Whether she liked girls in general, she didn't know, but she liked Connor. She didn't know what love was- and she didn't know if that was what she felt, but she was a mere sixteen. She didn't need all this, and she hoped that Connor didn't either, that she wouldn't act on her feelings for Geylan, that their time together would be normal. Rebecca didn't want to play third wheel.

"How are you holding?" Conyeri asked.

"Okay. I feel like a year has passed in two days."

"Mm, same. But we'll be safe, now."

"Where are we going?" She asked.

"My old house, hopefully. There, we can rest… there's a hearth we can use for heating, and nice beds."

Rebecca wanted to see where Connor really came from. She got her wish about half an hour later, when they dismounted next to an abandoned farmhouse. It was small, not meant for a big family. They entered and Conyeri looked around wistfully, probably reminiscing. She'd had happy and sad times here- it suddenly made Rebecca quite homesick, but she smiled and stayed silent as Conyeri got a fire started with a pile of dry wood from the cellar. They sat next to it in relative silence until Rebecca thought to inform her of what had happened after she'd left.

"Marisa and VanCleef got away, but Thredd didn't." she said. "How do you feel about that?"

"Not sure- I don't like Marisa. We were planning to kill her… but after everything that's happened now, I'm not sure. I hope she takes a new path. As for VanCleef, he's a cat. He's already died once and been brought back. They'll never take him down, or the Defias Brotherhood totally, for the same reason."

"So… what do we do now?"

"We wait and we sleep, then we find a way to contact Geylan and Dez and Harrman. And Isobella, if I can. My neck is- excuse the pun- hanging by a thread, and she's a skilled healer."

"Okay. What about after that? Long-term?"

"No idea."

"Honestly?"

"Well, we've got to survive. We have this house, and most of the Defias are locked up or dead. Humans will take a while to repopulate Westfall, and maybe by then, we'll be part of the furniture."

"So you think we should all live here? On your farm?"

"Maybe… but that's optimistic. Shit happens." Conyeri sighed and watched the small fire, her face illuminated soft orange, her hair shining despite being saturated with sewer water. Rebecca could see the bruises on her neck, violently purple and blue, marring her skin. She felt mildly disgusted at herself for thinking what she thought- a deeply-imprinted aversion to anything but the status quo- but she had long accepted that it was inevitable.

"Sleepy-time?" She asked. Conyeri nodded and on cue gave a massive yawn, prompting Rebecca to do the same. "I guess you'll go in your room, I'll take your parents'?"

"No, we'll snuggle down here. It's far too cold for anything else."

"Connor…" Rebecca sighed. "You know I…"

"I know you do, but I'm being sensible. We'll freeze to death otherwise."

"Okay." She waited as Conyeri hauled a mattress and bedcovers down. "I can stop the fire's flames burning stuff, then we could sleep closer to it."

"Do that, then." She set the covers on the mattress, her eyes filled with nostalgia. "It's a bit dusty, but serviceable."

They got under the covers and sadness welled up within Rebecca. The first time she'd actually fallen for someone, they'd turned out to be a girl disguised as a boy running away from the Defias and being pursued by an insane mage with an apocalyptic shard of some scythe that could summon worgen. All in all, she wasn't doing very well, on the run from her mother and the law, now, too, she guessed. She cried a bit, but didn't want to wake Connor, who had fallen deeply asleep as soon as her head had hit the musky pillows.

-

Geylan shivered and jammed another wooly hat on top of his first one, limping out onto the deck of the Defias zeppelin. He wondered where everyone was- there seemed to be only about thirty people on board, all of them in the sick bay. The morning's rain had froze and turned to hail, bouncing off the metal zeppelin in a thunderous drum roll, the weather seemingly punishing the Defias for their failed takeover.

Bitter, Geylan walked around the deserted zeppelin, looking for anyone. He found Cookie and only three other murlocs in the galley, mournful and somber. Isobella was down here, too, snoring, having expending a great deal of energy helping the wounded that had managed to return to the zeppelin before P-P had broken the transporter. Other than the sick bay, the galley was the only place above freezing.

Not chancing to wake her, he returned to the glacial deck, squinting through the growing murk of white and grey. From around the corner came Marisa and VanCleef, looking as though they could use a stint in the sick bay themselves.

"Shaw," Marisa rasped, leaning into his shoulder. "By the gods, where is the sick bay?"

VanCleef then collapsed to the floor with an almighty crash. Geylan watched, confused. Why were they back here? Had the invasion failed? Why were they so incapacitated? Grudgingly he backtracked immediately to the galley and woke Isobella, who jumped to her feet, grabbed her bag and looked like she'd just slept a whole day.

She looked them over carefully. "They were hanged. Their airways have been compromised." She looked suddenly very tired again as she took Marisa's throat gently and forced magic upon it, expanding her bruised throat and then laying her in a sideways position. She moved onto VanCleef and hesitated, not knowing his exact physiology, but performed the same maneuver. Screeching, a goblin wheeled around the corner and stopped her, cursing and inserting a screwdriver into some socket or other and fiddling with some wires.

"He's frozen up." The goblin explained, pulling out a small device that he spoke into. "I need a heat squad up on deck 2, stat."

A huge group of Goblins came and carted him off, shrieking. On Isobella's advice, Geylan picked Marisa up and carried her down into the galley, where Cookie took one look at her and opened up the kitchen doors so that they could lay her in the warmth. Bluish skin was not a good indicator of heath.

"They were executed," Isobella explained. "By hanging. You can tell by the neck bruises… I wonder if Conyeri is okay."

Geylan's stomach lurched. Conyeri, hanged? No, impossible. She wasn't a head Defias; she was only just legal, for god's sake! He glared at Marisa. "Was she?"

"What?" Marisa gasped, inhaling lungfuls of air.

"Was Cony hanged?"

"Yes… but she got away… like me and Ed."

"Where is she then?" He asked furiously. "Is she back on the ship?"

Isobella touched his shoulder. "She's not. She can… go through things. It's to do with her senses, I think… I read something about it. I saw her in training once, finding out… but I didn't think she'd ever be able to pass through solid ground…"

"I bet it was the scythe thing." Geylan muttered, his fists unclenching. "Then where is she?"

"The sewers connect to our tunnels…" Marisa mentioned, sitting up and nursing her head. "She always takes the left path, right?"

"Yes…" Geylan regarded her warily. "So… where would that bring her?"

"I don't… profess to know the tunnels by heart… or what direction she faced to begin with… but it's likely she's found her way into Westfall."

"Then I need to get down into Westfall."

"No, you don't. This is the only place we're safe, now. The transporter is broken." Isobella told him. "I'm not sewing up another of your legs."

"But… I have to find Conyeri."

"Pshh… go ahead. Jump off the zeppelin if it so pleases you." Marisa was back to her old self.

"Make me a portal."

"Me?" Marisa laughed. "Why would I want you to get to Cony?"

"Please." He begged her, eyes sad. "Marisa, you know why we do things better than anyone. You've been to hell and back and spat at the devil. You've had your run. Let me have mine."

"Sentimental crap…" she grimaced but caved in. "Fine, fine. I'll not baby-sit the kids, though."

"I wouldn't let you anyway."

A purple hole in the dimensional fabric popped up in front of a rack of drying fish and Geylan stepped inside. As a last thought, he turned around. "Isobella? Do you want to come with me?"

She shook her head. "There are sick people here. I want to heal them."

"Sure?"

"Maybe I'll see you in the future, Geylan Shaw." She saluted him and smiled. Marisa looked longingly at the portal.

"Marisa?"

"I want to go, but I shouldn't." She sighed and lightly touched the bruising around her neck. In that second, Marisa Du'Paige woke up from what seemed like a very long sleep. She looked sadly at Geylan and shook her head. "I've fucked up her life enough."

Geylan just regarded her, slightly amazed. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Tell her I'm sorry."

"Oh… okay."

He stepped into the portal, too confused to notice the horrible feeling of being turned inside out. His boots crunched into the layer of snow. Behind him, he took a last look at the kitchen and its occupants before the portal closed, cutting the warmth off. Shivering, he pulled his coat tighter around himself and began hobbling in the direction of Sentinel Hill. The sky was dark and the shadow of the zeppelin loomed over Westfall to the north. Down here, the hail was not quite as bad, but it still jarred his bones and set his teeth chattering.

The lights of Sentinel Hill were dim but on, and though most of the Defias and their associated peoples were dead, in the Stockade or on the zeppelin, some had stayed behind here, including a man he knew of who would tell him if Cony had passed this way.

"Racun," he greeted the thug, who looked up from where he was reading a newspaper, albeit slowly and laboriously, to face Geylan.

"Shaw." He greeted the higher-ranking Defias with an apathetic salute. "You're alive, then."

"Yes." Geylan gestured to his leg. "Pretty much. Have you seen Conyeri?"

"Nah, but Dez is 'ere. Poor lad, 'e's well beat up."

"Will he make it?"

"Touch and go… silly lad, 'e left Stormwind when 'e was nearly dead and rode all the way 'ere." Racun scratched his chin and rolled up his paper. "You want'ta see 'im?"

"Yes." Racun led Geylan into the Inn, which had been converted from Cookie's kitchen to a warm room and dormitory, and several Defias huddled around the stove, warming themselves. In the corner was a mound on a bed that groaned slightly. Geylan rushed up to Dez who saw him through one good eye, the other covered by a patch.

"Shaw…" he smiled through a giant slash down him face that had taken his eye. "I look like a bloody pirate."

"You could look like a furbolg and I'd still be here, Dez." Geylan took his hand and looked at him. Apart from his cut face, he had a deep stomach wound and a nastily burnt lower half. Also, he was missing two fingers. "Harrman will be furious you've lost more fingers than he has."

"Where is Harr?"

"He's trapped in the Stockade, Dez… I'm sorry." Tears leaked out of the sides of Dez's good eyes. "I know he was like a brother to you."

"He'll get out tho', right?" Dez asked, distraught. "The stocks… there's ways outta there."

"Maybe." Geylan chewed on one of his fingernails. "Dez, I'm going to find Cony. She got out… she's in Westfall somewhere. I'm going to check her old house when it gets light."

"I'm not movin' from this bed for a long time, Shaw. I got hit with a shadowbolt… I'm near exhausted, an' there's no medical supplies that can cure it. I dunno if I'll survive the winter."

"Don't say that!" Geylan stood up. "Dez, you're strong! You'll ride it out, and come spring, you'll be skipping around picking daisies."

"Pushing daisies, more like." He brooded, closing his eyes. "I'm tired… Shaw."

"Dez, please…" Geylan begged his friend, an unhealthy shade of light grey. "Not now… sit by the fire, or something. Isobella could heal you if she'd come down with me!" he cursed, shaking Dez's still body. "Please, you were so cheery a minute ago… no more dying, please!"

"Shaw, don'. I'm gone. Maybe… now, maybe tomorrow. I was bein' opet…oper…" He struggled for the word and sobbed when Harrman didn't pitch in with the one he was trying to say. "Wassat word, Shaw?"

"Optimistic." Geylan said very quietly.

"That. I was bein'… that. I'd rather… leave now, with you here, than alone." He opened his good eye a crack. "Please, Shaw?"

"No, Dez! You're not leaving, understand! I won't let you!"

"I'm leaving, Shaw…" he closed his eyes and took in a big breath. "'Member when we was… at camp?"

"Yes. With Jack and Isobella and Conyeri."

"'Member I said… 'bout being resurrected…?"

"We can find someone, Dez. Sometime. You're a good person, really, your soul won't go to hell… or we'll find a druid… but don't die at all, and we won't have to!"

"I 'member whut… I were thinkin', then…" he shuddered as another cold breeze whistled through the little building. "That… I'd like… ter be laid ter rest…"

"Dez, you're _not _going to die!" Getlan shouted at him, watching his chest rise and fall slower and slower.

"Laid… ter… rest… in Westfall. Not at me… family vault. By that camp… even. Please, Shaw."

"Dez…" Geylan's vision blurred as tears filled his eyes. "Please, don't do this to us all."

"Two thins… ye can't avoid, Shaw. Death… an' paladins."

He smiled, though his heart was breaking, seeing his friend die in front of him. Dez looked at him one last time. "Fer me… will ye… get Harr out?"

"Of course, Dez. Anything."

"Thank… ye… Shaw…" he tightened his grip on Geylan's hand one last time. He smiled one last time. He took in his last breath and said his last words. And with that, Dez died.

-

"As good a friend as we could ever hope to have had," Harrman said, through his sobs. He stood underneath the small, stunted tree that Isobella had once pinned Cony to in a fit of rage, his hands shaking. Around him were four people, all looking at the pile of earth that had been their friend. A small tombstone had been erected, reading:

_Dez_

_Brave in life, Brave in death_

_Our best friend_

"I hope that… I hope…" And Harrman couldn't stop himself any longer. He erupted into a fit of weeping, falling onto his knees at the foot of Dez's grave. "Dez…"

Conyeri watched this through a wall of salty tears herself, her hands clasped behind her back. To her right, Rebecca, to her left Geylan. Jack, who had been Dez's friend before they had even come to know him, was also present. Rebecca was perhaps not as moved as most of them, but then again had less reason to be- but it was, after all, she who had studied night and day to find a way to make a specific portal to Harrman's cell, and she who had got him out, as was his last wish.

Geylan was sobbing beside her, doubly stirred, as he had been present at Dez's death. He had found them, at Cony's house. He hadn't even hugged her, just told her about Dez. They had made the trek back to Sentinel Hill and transported the body themselves. Rebecca had frozen him, as to preserve his body for the coming of spring while she studied to create the portal. It had been two months of silence and mourning for the four of them, going about their daily work with the spirit of Dez hanging over them. The fragment had been silent.

Jack, sensing Harrman's distress, took over in his deep voice, though it was a little shaky. "We hope that he's found peace, wherever it may be."

"Wherever it may be," they echoed him in hollow voices, each feeling a different kind of pain. It was as if their group was now missing something, something they would perhaps never regain. As they stood on that cold February afternoon, joined indefinitely in mourning, all five of the assembled said their own little prayer to their own little god, praying for Dez. They had all loved Dez, unconditionally, and they would still love him, even if he weren't physically present.

There was a silence, then, spanning centuries. They stood until the sun dipped down below the increasingly fertile hills, until the blue sky became a deep blanket of stars, until the wind picked up and the cold chilled them to the bone. Conyeri was the first to speak.

"I think… we should remember what he said… on the top deck of the zeppelin." The others looked at her questioningly. "After Patrick told him about his dad's death, he said something that was beyond me, but now I think I understand it. When my parents died, I tried to mourn them indefinitely. I don't think we should do that for Dez. He said…_ 'I'd rather honour his memory than mourn his loss. A person's life is better remembered that way'."_

"I agree," Harrman wiped his nose and stood up. "Dez, we're going to toast to your life. We're going to bring… you up in conversation, and we're going to remember you and laugh and smile, not… cry and be sombre."

They stayed at his grave for one day and one night, eating bread and water. They told stories about him, lauded his bravery, and revealed funny anecdotes. When it was time to leave, it was Harrman who turned back to the little hillock where he was buried and decided something. "I'm naming this place Dez's Hill."

They murmured in agreement and walked back to the DeHayersae stead, which was back to normal, now that the fields had been weeded and the harvest golems chased away. The house had and extension built on it. Jack was staying there.

From the cellar, Conyeri brought up a keg of beer and they tapped it, pulling six mugs. Dez's mug, they placed in the spare seat around the kitchen table, in memory of him. They played a game of dice, which Dez always won, and Jack even brought out Dez's guitar, and they sung some of his favourite songs, promising that Enides Farlcairn III did not die in vain.

-

In the coming months, little changed. Conyeri put off her choice, instead deciding that she could be a friend to everyone, despite any romantic feelings that the various parties harboured towards each other. The farm was revamped and the spring was mild, letting her plant her crops and begin her life again.

A knock on the front door surprised her. She opened it to find Alt, looking happy. Not half-happy, but actually happy, his metal shiny and smooth. "Alt?"

"They took out my emotional block," he explained. "Miss Du'Paige allowed it. She regained her sanity, you know."

"I'm glad." She let him in, where he sat on one of the crude wooden seats and looked dubiously at the undrunk mug of beer.

"It's for Dez." She explained. "Every time we tap a keg, we pour him a pitcher."

"He must be very drunk, wherever he is." Alt smiled and ran his hands along the table. "Though I'm here on other business."

"Of course." She regarded him and sat down across the table. Geylan and Harrman were out back tending to the wheat. Jack had moved back to wherever he came from long ago and Rebecca- Rebecca was no doubt still sleeping, the lazy girl.

"VanCleef was assassinated," Alt explained. "For real this time, by Patrick Darkleigh… Marisa is the new leader of the Defias, and she's seriously reconsidering what they do."

"She's realigning the Defias?"

"Yes. She wants to use the Westfall land we have to return to farming… not everyone is happy with it. There is a schism."

"I see…" she sighed and propped her elbows up on the table. "She really has changed, eh?"

"Most definitely," he agreed. "It makes me happy that she has found herself."

"I'm happy that you can feel happy… I never really apologized for all those things I said to you, Alt."

"Call me Alteon. Alteon Whisperwalker…" He smiled at her. "I'm going back to Dolanaar, where I come from, to see my sister. The winds have changed. With so much evil going on, good is beginning to catch up… I hope that she can accept me."

"She'd be mad not to," Conyeri said. "So what will happen to the Defias?"

"Those in favour of pacification will come down from the zeppelin and occupy the farmsteads. I suppose that those who do not will continue the original Defias activities, though it will take a great deal of time for them to become as powerful as they once were."

"One big circle, then." She mused, twirling a lock of her hair in her finger. "And then Stormwind will send some people here… Sentinel Hill will become part of the Alliance again… And we will all be forgotten."

"That is how it seems things will play out… or rather, that is how I hope they will."

"Good luck, Alt. Alteon. You deserve it after all the crap you've been through." As an afterthought, she added. "You can be the uncle for my nonexistent children."

"Why nonexistent?" He asked. "Surely you and Master Shaw…"

"No. We all decided together. Sex is overrated. We don't need to marry to spend the rest of our lives together."

"Very wise of you. I wish you the best of fortunes."

"Same."

Alteon Whisperwalker left and never came back. Isobella moved into the farm next door. Marisa never bothered Conyeri again.

I'd like to say they lived happily ever after, but that would be a lie.

-_END_-


End file.
